His Wicked Games
by gleeeeeful
Summary: COMPLETE. Kurt needs more money to keep his boss' art center alive. When the funds the Anderson family pledged were pulled, Kurt tries anything to convince the Anderson's heir to give back the money. What happens is what neither had expected. Adapted from novel "His Wicked Games" by Ember Casey. Rated M for language and sexual scenes.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I lean out the car window and press the button on the call box for the third time. "Hello?" I say yet again. "Anyone there?" No one answers. Yet again. I sit back against the seat and slam my hand against the steering wheel. Stupid rich asshole. I've driven all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and he won't even let me in. Not that I expected any different. A pair of wrought-iron gates stand between me and their small yard in the Upper East Side. They're covered in ivy, like the entrance to some enchanted garden in a fairy tale, and I have no doubt the family paid a small fortune to their landscapers to create that wild, "overgrown" look – especially in Manhattan where greenery is a rare thing in the first place. I kill the engine of my beat-up Honda and climb out of the car. I don't care how long it takes—I won't leave until they let me through. If that means camping out here for the next several hours, then so be it.

I walk up to the gates and give them a good shake, hoping they'll magically pop open at my touch. They don't even wiggle. Beyond them lie the estates of the Anderson family, the current residence of the infamous—and infuriating—Blaine Anderson.

His note arrived yesterday, and I've read it about fifty times since then.

_Dearest Mr. Hummel,_

_While your persistence is admirable, I assure you your exertions on behalf of the Brooklyn Center for the Arts will do little to change my decision. I'm afraid I will not be including the Brooklyn Center in my financial plans for the foreseeable future, and for your own sake, I request that you abandon your efforts to change my mind. I would not waste any more of your time._

_Respectfully, Blaine_

No mention of the fact that he's broken the pledge contract his late father signed. No acknowledgment that his actions might single-handedly be responsible for the closing of the Brooklyn Center. No apology for blowing off all my previous attempts to contact him.

I stand on my toes in front of the gates, trying to find a place where the vines part just enough to give me a view of the other side. Between the leaves I can see the long, cobblestoned driveway winding between a double row of live oaks. There's no view of the house from here, but if the rumors are true, it's something of a monstrosity. The rich love their ridiculous mansions.

The Andersons have always been weird about their property. No photos of the estate have ever been released to the public—except for the occasional grainy shot from a helicopter, which is always quickly retracted—though descriptions of the lands and house grow more extravagant with every story. They're one of the last great "old money" families in this part of the country and have a reputation for being a little eccentric; as such, they attract their fair share of attention—and they appear to harbor their fair share of secrets as well.

Probably why security's such a bitch. I step back and look up at the camera bolted to the stone wall above the call box. "I don't have a camera," I call up to it. "I'm not trying to sneak any photos or anything." I go back to the car and grab my bag. There are only four things inside: my wallet, a pack of gum, some sunglasses, and a severely outdated iPhone. I take them out one by one, and when I get to the phone I hold it up so the security camera can see.

"Look," I say, bringing my phone to life. "My camera is broken on my phone." I throw the phone down with the other items and grab the bag again. I turn it upside down and give it a good shake for effect.

The gates don't budge.

I give an exasperated sigh and walk around to the trunk of my car. It's full of the usual junk. I pull out the grocery sack I use as a makeshift garbage bag, rifle through it beneath the camera to show that it's only receipts and fast food wrappers, and drop it on the drive. Next I pull out a pair of sneakers, a small emergency car kit, and a couple of rough-edged file folders.

"See?" I say. "Nothing." There's no response. I lean over to the call button and jam it another time. "Look," I say. "I'm not trying to cause any trouble. As I said before, I'm from the Brooklyn Center for the Arts." I flip open my wallet and flash my ID card at the camera. _Kurt Hummel. Assistant Director. _There's even a picture, though my naturally deep brown, curly hair looks rather bush-like in the image. "Please. I just want to speak with Mr. Anderson in regard to the letter he sent us. He won't return my calls." _God, could I sound like any more of a stalker?_

But there is still no answer from the call box. I walk back over to the gates and press my face against the bars.

"Hello!" I call. "Can anyone hear me?" I don't see anyone on the other side, but that doesn't mean there's no one there.

I'm about to yell again when the first raindrop lands on my cheek. I brush it off and glance up. The sky was clear when I left this morning, but now it's an ominous gray.

Great. Just what I need.

A crack of thunder sounds right overhead. I curse and run back to my stuff, scooping it up off the driveway as the rain starts to pick up. I've just managed to throw the last of it in my trunk when the skies open up and it begins to pour. I jump back into my car and roll up the window, but not before half of the driver's side seat is soaked.

I lean on my right hip, trying to keep the butt of my jeans dry. It's too late for my upper half. For a moment I just sit there, sideways, staring at the water sliding down the windshield. Beyond the glass, the gates are still closed. It doesn't look like security is going to take pity on the poor wet guy sitting outside.

I chew absently on my lip as I try to think. Sure, this puts a damper on things, but I'm not about to let a little rain stop me. If I have to sit out here all night, I'll do it, but there has to be a way to convince them to let me through. I hoped, naively, that my determination would inspire some sort of sympathy. It's easy enough for a gazillion-aire like Blaine Anderson to brush off letters and phone calls, but I thought it would be harder for him to ignore someone sitting in front of his own gate. Looks like I was wrong.

I tap my horn a couple of times, just to show security that I don't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. They're probably having a good laugh at me, but I don't care. For once, I'm standing up for something. The Brooklyn Center is my life, and now it's going to close—unless I convince Blaine Anderson to reverse his decision to retract the promise his father made.

The late Richard Anderson was a great patron of the arts and our largest donor for years. Apparently Richard's son had been somewhat hidden from the public for years - the son which the world now knows shares no such philanthropic tendencies. According to the tabloids, Blaine's spent the better part of the last ten years gallivanting across Europe, romancing models and starlets and partying his way through every techno club he could find. Since his father's death this past summer, Blaine's been in charge of the family funds, and he's wasted no time in undoing his father's contributions to society.

We received notice of the decision through his lawyers, who detailed in fancy legal jargon why Blaine's actions weren't in violation of the pledge contract his father signed two years ago. We're a small nonprofit institution. We don't have the resources to challenge the decision, even if Will would allow it.

A pang of guilt shoots through me. Will doesn't know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He thinks I'm in the Hamptons trying to scare up some corporate sponsors during the peak travel season.

He's been adamantly against pursuing the matter with Blaine Anderson, claiming he refuses to reduce himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this whole Anderson business wrapped up—better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?—but now that it looks I'm going to be here a while, I know I need to give him a call.

I grab my phone and punch in the number for the Brooklyn Center. Will's been manning the phone in the evenings after the volunteer secretary leaves.

The line rings once before he picks up. "Brooklyn Center for the Arts," he says. "Will Schuster speaking." "Hey," I say.

"Hey, Kurt." The cheerful act of a moment ago seeps out of his voice. He sounds exhausted. "I was just thinking about you. Any luck with those leads?"

Will founded the Brooklyn Center coming on fifteen years ago, back when I was thirteen. He was an actor before that, and he opted out of taking on more roles and contributed his entire savings in order to secure the initial funds for the organization. Since then, Will has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our community. I joined the team during college and have been there ever since – finding Will to be a great friend and confidant.

Which is why I'll do anything to help, even if it means lying to him for the time being.

"Nothing's settled yet," I say carefully. "But I still have a few inquiries to make." It's _quite _a lie. And technically the Anderson estates have an Upper East Side address, which is not far from Brooklyn where our small Center resides, but it's still not in the same town, per se.

"What about you?" I say quickly, before Will can ask me any more questions about my current location. "Come up with any more ideas?"

He's silent for a long time. I can practically hear him rubbing his forehead. When I left the Center this morning, he was going over the budgets and accounts for the hundredth time.

"It's not good," he says finally. "I just can't—I can't make it work. Vinny suggests raising the class prices, but we'd have to triple them, and I won't do that. He said he thinks we might be able to draw in an extra thousand at the Harvest Festival this year, but I don't think that'll be enough." He lets out a long, shaky breath.

Something tightens in my chest. I've never heard Will sound so defeated.

"Will, I..." What can I say that I haven't said a hundred times already? Time and again over the last few months I've reassured him that we'll get through this, that we'll find a way, but the chances of that are looking bleaker every day. I pick at a loose bit of vinyl hanging off my steering wheel.

On the other end of the line, I hear him shuffling through some papers. He gives another sigh.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call Adam?" he says. "I know it didn't end well between you two, but I just think—"

"No. Absolutely not." The loose piece of vinyl tears off beneath my nail. "Please, Will. Anything else. But please don't call him." Once, I thought Adam was the perfect man. I mean, come on—he was a successful, wealthy journalist who spent his free time volunteering at the Center. And he was a damn good volunteer, too. When he worked for us, he managed to solicit more donations in a month than all of our other volunteers combined. It was how we met.

It took two years before I realized that "good on paper" doesn't exactly equal "good boyfriend." The worst part is Will – and most people, really – still think that asshole was the greatest fucking thing that has ever happened to me.

I stab at another piece of loose vinyl with my thumbnail.

"Just let me see what I can manage out here," I say. "And then we can go from there." If I never see Adam again, it'll be too soon. I won't let us get that desperate.

On the other end, Will lets out another long breath. "All right, Kurt. I'm just not sure what our options are anymore."

_Me either_, I think, but I won't tell him that. "We'll be okay," I tell him. "I know we will. We might just have to be a little creative for a while."

"Creative," he repeats. "We can do that."

I can't tell if he believes it or not. "I'll be in tomorrow morning," I say. "I'm not sure how much longer this will take tonight."

"Good," he says, distracted. "That sounds good. Stay safe out there."

I hang up and toss the phone on the passenger's seat. I can't take this much longer. I can't stand to hear Will sound so tired, so utterly dejected. I'll do anything to save the Center and give him back that spark I miss so much—anything short of calling Adam, at least. Bringing _him _into this will only make the whole situation worse.

That's why I have to convince Blaine Anderson to change his mind.

Before I can lose my nerve, I throw open the door and step back out into the rain. For kicks, I press the call button one more time.

"I don't suppose you've changed your mind?" I say into the box. There's no response. I look up at the camera. I need to talk to Blaine. It doesn't matter how. The idea comes into my head from nowhere, and I decide to go for it before I have the chance to chicken out. "Hey, boys," I call over the rain. I turn around grab the top of my pants and unhook the belt, take a deep breath, and pull them down, catching the top edge of my boxer briefs as well and exposing my ass to the security system. One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring over my bare skin, and then I yank my pants quickly back up and refasten them securely in place. My cheeks are blazing hot, but there's a wild rush in my belly. I've just flashed the Anderson security camera. That has to get a reaction. I knew that Blaine was gay like me and a small sliver of hope prodded me to believe that perhaps seeing my ass – which countless paramours had praised in my past – would at least entice him to open those gates that seemed to mock my presence.

I cross my arms over my chest as I wait. There's a strange, reckless feeling flowing through me, and it's kind of exciting. Maybe a little desperation is good for me.

But as the minutes tick by and no one comes out to apprehend me—or compliment my ass and usher me inside—the exhilaration slowly seeps away.

"Seriously?" I yell up at the camera. "That got _nothing_?" The intercom doesn't even offer a taunting crackle. Fine. I'll just have to implement Plan B. I march back over to the gates, wading through the puddles that have already formed on the driveway. I move down the length of the gates, feeling past the ivy for any openings in the wrought iron where I might be able to slip through. I'm relatively tiny, but the ironwork here is pretty elaborate, all curlicues and closed spiral patterns. Finally, about halfway down the length of the gate, I find a spot where I think I can squeeze by. It's about chest high, which means I'll have to climb a little to get to it, but I think I'm up for it.

"Oh, no," I cry in mocking challenge over the rain. "You guys better come and stop me." I grip the iron bars with both hands and pause, waiting to hear the approach of a security guard through the rain.

No one comes.

I raise one foot up onto the gate and then the other, and I begin to climb. The metal is cold and slick beneath my fingers, but that wild, reckless feeling is building in my belly again. I move carefully but deliberately, kicking through the vines to find the footholds, clutching the bars with white knuckles. When I'm high enough, I pause again.

"Aren't you going to stop me?" I call up to the camera. Apparently, the answer is no. I bring one leg up and through the break in the ironwork, then slide forward until my upper body is through. I glance around for security guards, but I don't see anyone or anything that might stop me. Is it really this easy? Can I honestly just climb down onto the Anderson property? I pull myself through the rest of the way, clinging desperately to the bars as my feet fumble for new footholds. I'm breaking into the Anderson estates. This is crazy. _I'm _crazy. Adrenaline is pumping through my system, and I'm not sure whether I want to laugh or vomit.

"I guess no one minds I'm here?" I call into the rain. I take the resulting silence as consent. The climb down is more difficult than the climb up. My fingers are colder now from the rain and they're starting to get stiff. The vines seem to be thicker on this side, and one gets tangled around my leg. I manage to free myself, but I'm more than grateful when my feet finally hit solid ground again.

I stand there, frozen, and wait for the alarms to go off. Shouldn't there be blaring sirens or flashing lights or something? Shouldn't a pack of vicious Dobermans come charging down the driveway to rip me to shreds?

Apparently the Anderson family's security measures aren't as good as I thought.

I smile to myself. I've never felt this reckless before, but I think it agrees with me. I know I'm being insane, but I don't care. I've come here to save the Center, and there's no turning back now.

Blaine Anderson won't even know what hit him.

I've only met Blaine once in person, but that was enough. It was at the Brooklyn Center's Arts & Hearts fundraiser, a black tie dinner we host every Valentine's Day in our gallery space. The affair is our most formal event of the year, and in addition to raising a good chunk of money, it's our chance to honor our biggest donors and supporters. Richard Anderson attended the event every year, but last February —about five months before he died—he brought his son Blaine along as well.

I'll admit it: I was excited to meet the infamous heir to the Anderson fortune. I mean, you can't even pop through the supermarket checkout line without spotting him on one of the tabloids—usually on some Italian beach with the latest "it" guy – model, actor, didn't matter – Blaine Anderson could bed them all. I was curious. I couldn't help it.

Blaine was, at first glance, nothing like I expected. There seems to be one in every "old money" family: the son with the good looks and bad behavior to spare. Though he oozed charm, he was devastatingly "dark and handsome" – not on the tall side, but certainly had dark features and a seemingly dark demeanor, which the tabloids had latched onto when Blaine was thrust into the spotlight a few years ago.

In another life, if Blaine hadn't been born into insane amounts of money—or if he decided that partying and bedding anything with two legs and a dick weren't enough of a career for him— he might have made his own millions as a model.

He's also the kind of guy who looks down his nose at events thrown by small arts organizations. Blaine spent the entire evening of Arts & Hearts looking bored out of his mind and sipping aloofly at his wine. He seemed to vaguely show interest when Sam, one of my friends from high school, took the stage in order to talk about our Center's initiatives, but his interest faded when Sam invited his girlfriend Mercedes to the stage and the intrigue behind his eyes died.

I'd hoped to never see him again.

But I'm not about to let him get away this time. This time I'm going to make him take responsibility for his actions, even if the rest of the world won't.

I bow my head against the wind and march up his the small walkway to the massive building. The yard – if you could call it that – was small and offered no protection from the rain, so I ended up looking like a drenched rat trying to win a wet t-shirt contest with my now see through white button up rather than the professional I had aspired to be when meeting with one of the richest men in Manhattan.

"Hey!"

The voice cuts through the storm, and my head jerks up. I glance around, and it takes me a moment to spot the figure through the rain.

It's a man— a broad, somewhat short yet obviously muscled man, dressed in dark clothes. A security guard. And he's coming at me. Fast.

I panic. Yes, it was only a few minutes ago that I was _trying _to catch the attention of the security team, but now that some guy's charging at me through the rain, my fight or flight response kicks in. I bolt.

I run off the driveway and between two of the trees, cutting across the grass in what I hope is the direction of the house. One of my flats slips off my foot, but I keep going, my toes gripping the mud as I sprint. There are lights up ahead—house lights, I hope. I need to get to Blaine. I don't dare look over my shoulder, but the security guard is gaining. His footsteps slap against the wet ground, and they're getting louder.

I have to outrun him.

My other shoe falls off my slick foot. I almost slip. I can just make out the house ahead of me now, a dark shape against the dark sky. I'm so close. Just a little farther—

The guard slams into me, pushing me down to the ground with him on top of me. The air _whoosh_es out of me as I hit the mud, but I recover quickly. I twist beneath his weight, trying to fight my way out of his grasp.

"Let go of me!" I say, swinging my elbow at him.

I hit him in the gut. He grunts, and his grip loosens on my waist. I try to wriggle away, but he grabs me by the knees.

"Let go!" I say again. I kick at him.

He tries to catch my ankle. "Mr.—oof—Hummel."

I manage to get one leg loose. His grip on the other one is too strong. He flips me over so that I'm on my back, and he lunges forward, catching each of my arms before I can swing at him again. He's straddling me, pinning me down, and struggle as I might I can't get free.

"Get off of me," I say. His breathing is heavy from the exertion. He leans down closer to me. He seemed like a bit of a welterweight now that we were in close proximity, but he was alarmingly strong as I struggled wildly under his grip to get away.

"And why should I do that, Mr. Hummel?" he says. "You're trespassing on _my _property." I freeze. The rain is still coming down hard, but I shake the wet strands of hair from my face and blink up at the man on top of me. In the hazy light from behind us I can just barely make out the features of his face, but a jolt of recognition pulses through me.

It's Blaine.

My heart stops. This isn't some random security guard. It's the man of the house himself, the asshole who's ruining my life.

And he's on top of me.

"Get off," I repeat, wriggling. But in a position like this the movement is unintentionally sexual. I stop, but not before Blaine also notices the intimate implications of our situation. He gives a chuckle deep in his throat then leans closer so I can hear his low voice over the rain.

"And why should I let you go," he says into my ear, "when you've already caused me so much trouble?"

The warmth of his breath sends prickles across my skin. I try to wrench my wrists out of his grasp. "I can't believe you would hold a man down," I say, "when he clearly—"

"Man?" he breathes into my ear. I try not to shiver at the proximity or how it feels to have his warm breath against my cool neck. "I don't see a man. I see a trespasser. Tell me, do you make a habit of breaking onto private property, or did I just get lucky?"

"You know exactly why I'm here, Mr. Anders—"

"And _you _know I have every right to call the police right now and have you arrested."

What little breath I have left catches in my throat. He can't be serious. I didn't think he'd be _happy_, exactly, about finding me here, but worst-case scenario I expected security to march me back outside the gates and leave it at that. I can't be arrested. I've barely been able to cover my bills these last couple of months—I definitely can't afford bail. And the last thing I want is to put that on Will, not when he's put everything he owns into the Brooklyn Center.

Rage bubbles up in my chest. "You're an ass, you know that?"

"I believe the police will see things differently," he says. "Especially since you've spent the last two months harassing me."

The accusation floors me. "Harassing you? You broke our contract! I don't care what you paid your fancy lawyers to say. You violated the promise your father made. That money belongs to the Brooklyn Center."

He shifts his weight up slightly, enough to look me in the eyes. They're pitch black against the deep gray sky above. "I thought, Mr. Hummel, that I made my stance on the matter quite clear."

"The only thing that's clear around here is that you're an arrogant asswipe!"

He laughs. "You can do better than that, Mr. Hummel," he says. He sits up a little more. "I'm willing to release your hands, but only if you promise you won't punch me."

There's very little I want more than to punch him right now, but I nod my head obediently. He lets go of my wrists and sits up. He's still straddling me. There's no longer anything to block the rain from my face. I blink the water out my eyes and turn my head, breaking our gaze. Blaine chuckles again. "Perhaps we should finish this discussion inside, where we can both be a little more comfortable." His weight lifts from me, but I stay where I am. I don't trust him. "Come on, Mr. Hummel." When I look up he's holding his hand out to me.

I sigh. I'm completely soaked, and there's mud in places I don't even want to think about. If Blaine wants to go inside, then fine. I'm not about to let him off the hook, but there's no harm in getting out of the rain.

I push myself up on my elbows then reach out and grab his hand. He pulls me up to my feet as if I weigh nothing, and I almost fall right against his chest. Instead I catch myself at the last minute, my bare toes clinging to the mud. I sway away from him, but he still has my hand in his grasp. He won't let go, even when I try to pull away.

I take another step back. "What are you—"

He grabs me by the waist and yanks me off the ground. The world flips around me as he throws me over his shoulder. I certainly did not expect _that_ when I saw him earlier today. I have to weigh more than him, yet here he goes throwing me over his shoulder as if I'm just a grocery bag he needs to bring in from his car.

"What are you doing?" I say. "Let me go!" He doesn't respond. His grip tightens around my waist and he begins moving toward the house. "What the fuck?" I say, hitting him in the back. "Put me down!"

"I don't think so," he says.

"I can walk by myself! I'm not a fucking sack of potatoes!"

"I'm not going to give you the chance to run away." I try to kick him, but he uses his other arm to catch me by the knees. "Forgive me if I don't trust you," he says. I stop struggling, letting my body fall limp in his grasp. My wet hair bounces around my face in time with his steps. I can't see anything but the muddy grass beneath us and the wet backsides of Blaine's pants and shoes.

My rage against this man has been building for a couple of months now, and the indignity of my current position brings all of it spewing out. "You think you can get away with anything because you're rich," I say, my voice edged in venom. "You think you can walk all over people and break promises because you have the fancy lawyers and no one would dare stand up to the Anderson family."

His arm tightens, and he readjusts me on his shoulder.

"You might have the rest of them eating out of your hand," I say, "but I'm not letting you off the hook that easy. You think you can just throw your reputation around and do whatever you want. You expect to just throw out a few bills and flash a sexy smile and have everyone fall at your feet. You don't give a damn about anyone else."

For a minute he doesn't respond, and then: "You think my smile is sexy?"

I make an exasperated sound, but I don't think he hears me. He's going up steps now—wide stone steps that have moss growing on the grout. I lift my head slightly, and through my falling strands of hair I can make out a pair of stone lions on either side of us, marble heads raised as if guarding the way inside. _Of course _there are freaking stone lions outside this place. No doubt there are gargoyles and stained glass windows and numerous other ostentatious features, too.

A few more steps and I hear him open a door. There's a rush of warmth as he carries me into the house, and I'm more grateful than I want to admit to be out of the rain.

"We're inside," I say, poking him in the back. "Put me down." "Not yet." His voice is thick with amusement. "Is this some sort of sick joke?" I say. "This is ridiculous. I came here to talk to you. I'm not going to run away."

"Then you should have no problem with me giving you a lift," he replies. "If anything, you should be thanking me. I wasn't about to let someone walk barefoot through the mud."

"There's no mud in here." I give him another couple of jabs in the back. "And my feet were muddy already. It doesn't matter."

"All the more reason to carry you," he says. "I'd prefer not to stain the carpets. Or ruin your precious shoes." He's having too much fun at my expense. I want to kick my legs and splatter mud all over the walls, but I don't think that'll help my case for the Center. Besides, he still has his arm across my knees.

I raise my head again, trying to get a good look at my surroundings. He's carrying me down a hallway, but the lights are dim and I can't see much through my hair that went from coiffed to disastrous with the rain. I can only get a clear view of the carpets below us. They're definitely pretty fancy, but Blaine either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he's leaving his own set of muddy footprints on the richly colored threads.

"Where are we going?" I say to him, tired of this game. "Some sort of torture chamber, maybe? Are you going to chain me up in the dungeon until the police get here?"

His fingers dig into my waist. "Don't give me any ideas."

"If you'd just answered my calls or my emails, we could've discussed this whole thing like adults," I say.

"Adults, eh?" he says. "Do adults usually climb through each other's gates? Or flash security cameras, for that matter?" My neck goes instantly hot. _He saw that_? God, I had an inkling that he could have seen it, but I thought it was a farfetched conclusion. "I think I've mentioned before that I admire your determination," he says. "But I can't say that I was encouraging that kind of behavior. Not that I minded the show."

I try to knee him in the chest, but he holds me tight. I settle for giving him a particularly hard jab in the back. "If you're not going to let someone in, the least you can do is respond to them," I say. "Especially when you've already fucked that person over."

"So I'm required to respond to every idiot who shows up at my gates?" he says. "Every paparazzo who's tried to snap a photo through the bars? Every reporter who camped out there for weeks right after my father died?"

"That's not what I—"

"When you have money, people think they're entitled to things from you. Sometimes it's photos. Most often it's money."

He uses his knee to shove open a door. "Light," he says. The lights flick on. Before I can make sense of where we are, he flips me down onto a sofa. I go dizzy from the head rush, and it takes a minute for him to come into focus. When he does, the bitterness is clear on his face. He's leaning over me, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me push back against the cushions behind me.

Now that I see him in the full light, I'm startled by the changes in him since the last time we met. Before, he was the picture of perfection: not a wrinkle in his clothes, not a hair out of place, broad smile pasted on his face. The change is more than just the aftermath of our scuffle in the mud outside. He's wearing a plain white T-shirt and dark pants, and I can tell neither was particularly luxurious even before I arrived here today. His hair has outgrown its somewhat cropped look, and his hair doesn't seem to have a lick of product in it. There are dark circles beneath his brown eyes and a slight shadow of stubble lines his chin and cheeks.

"What?" he says. "Now you're going to shut up?" Dark humor twists his features.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask him. "I'm not a photographer or a reporter. But your father signed a contract—"

"You're welcome to challenge the decision in court," he says. "I won't discuss it here. Not without my legal representation present."

"You know we can't afford to challenge it," I say.

"Not my problem." He crosses his arms and stares down at me. "My problem is people who think they can come waltzing onto my property without any consequences." He yanks his cell phone out of his pocket.

"Call the police, then," I say. "But this doesn't end here. I'm not going to stop until we have the money we were promised, or until the entire world knows what a cheap, heartless bastard you are."

I'm surprised at the words even as they come out of my mouth, but my anger is making me bold.

Blaine seems equally startled by my voracity. His cell phone is in his hand, poised to call the police, but he stands frozen. There's a strange expression in his eyes that I can't read.

"Very well, then," he says finally. He slides the phone back in his pocket. "No police."

A flutter of hope takes life in my chest. "I have some materials back in my car," I say. "If you understood what we do—"

"Don't mistake me," he says. "I've decided not to call the police. That's all. I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you yet."

"_Do _with me?" I say. I push myself up off the couch so we're standing toe to toe. "What's that

supposed to mean?" I still can't read the expression in his eyes. His irises are so dark I can hardly tell where they stop and his pupils begin. He's so close that I can see his pulse beating in his throat.

"The way I see it," he says slowly, his voice dropping low, "you want something from me. The question is, how far are you willing to go to get it?"

Wait. Is he actually _propositioning _me? As if to punctuate his point, Blaine reaches out and slides a strand of wet hair from my face. His fingers brush against my cheek, and I'm shocked by how warm they are against my damp skin.

"I'm—I'm not going to sleep with you," I say, my voice softer than I intend. I step away from him, and the back of my knees hit the edge of the couch.

"I never asked you to sleep with me," he replies. He steps toward me, closing the gap between us again. "I was thinking more along the lines of dinner."

"Dinner. Like a date?" This is ridiculous. Two minutes ago he was threatening to call the police on me, and now he wants to have _dinner_?

"No, not like a date." His voice is thick with amusement again. "Dinner here, right now. I was about to sit down to eat when I became aware of the disturbance at my gate, and now I'm starving."

"Oh." I'm not sure how I feel about this. He wants us to sit down over some beef stroganoff or something and act like friends? I can't think of anything more awkward.

"Did you want to talk about your little Center or not?" he says.

"Talk about it?" I say quickly. "Of course. Yes. Dinner then. Yes."

He gives a low chuckle. "Good." He reaches out to take my arm, but his fingers freeze on my sleeve. His eyes rake down my body, and heat rushes to my cheeks. Is he seriously checking me out right now? "You need to change first," he says. "I don't want you dripping all over the table." Now my entire face is hot. He doesn't need to remind me that I'm a muddy mess. I probably look like a drowned rat.

"You're not exactly clean either," I say, crossing my arms. "Besides, I have nothing else to wear."

"That's not an issue in this house, I assure you," he says. His eyes skim down my body once more.

"Not an issue at all."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

He takes me to a bedroom. As soon as the door swings open and I see the enormous four-poster bed, I spin on him in a fury. "What exactly are you trying to pull?" I say. "If you think you can march me to a bedroom and I'll just—" He cuts me off with a finger against my lips.

"I keep extra clothes in the closet here," he says. "I'd imagine we can find something in here to suit your… needs," eyeing my outfit and how it was clinging to my body.

"Where did these come from?" I ask, gesturing to a small pile of somewhat tattered clothes on the armoire next to the closet as Blaine hands me a towel.

"A friend left them."

"A friend?" I ask suspiciously. With Blaine's proclivities and high number of men featured in his tabloid pictures, I was worried that these would have come from one of those probably disease-ridden men he seemed to find everywhere he went.

"A friend from high school, if you must know. He stayed with me recently."

His reply seemed safe enough, so I took the clothes with a small smile – hoping my nerves would still rather than think about the many men who could have left clothes behind in the Anderson residence.

"Is your friend here too?"

"No, he's off saving the world, as usual," he says. "Wes, that's his name. He left for Southeast Asia not long after the funeral." I don't miss the hint of bitterness in his voice, but I don't dare push the matter any further. "You're welcome to wear whatever you find in there," he continues.

"I'm going back to my room, since you were kind enough to point out that I could use a change as well. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes, if that's all right?"

"I'm sure I can handle myself."

"I don't doubt it." Whatever shadow darkened his mood a moment ago is gone. He gives me another one of those amused smiles, the kind that I'm sure charms most men right out of their undies.

Good thing I'm not most men.

I give him a smile of my own—a controlled, unconcerned smile, I hope—and step into the room, closing the door behind me.

I have to admit, now that I'm getting a better look, this is one of the most beautiful bedrooms I've ever seen. The walls are sage green, the floors dark hardwood. There's an enormous white stone fireplace against one wall, and its mantle is carved to look like a canopy of leaves. On the far side of the room, a pair of long-paned windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling.

But the bed. Oh, the bed.

The bed is made of dark wood, and its headboard has been carved to match the mantle, depicting an elaborate scene with birds, butterflies, and flowers hidden among the leaves. A vine pattern has been etched up each of the four posts, and the canopy is draped in gauzy white fabric. The mountains of pillows and thick comforter look so inviting that, I swear, if I weren't covered in mud I'd dive right into the middle of it all.

But I'm never going to use that bed, so there's no point in drooling over it. I'm here to change, that's all. I find the bathroom first, and I almost fall over at the sight of my reflection in the mirror. I'm a mess. I quickly wash the mud off my hands and feet and neck, but there's not much I can do for my wet, tangled hair. I push it back as best as I can and venture back into the bedroom, where I head over to the closet.

Once again, I'm stunned.

If the bedroom was impressive, the closet is absolutely magnificent—not to mention roughly the same size as my current studio apartment. There are racks upon racks upon racks of clothes, an entire wall of shoes, and three full rotating cabinets in the middle of the room that appear to house watches, ties and other accessories.

And Blaine said these were _extra_ things?

I walk over to a shelf and choose a hanger at random. It's a very expensive looking suit – all navy with a pink lining in the coat – and can't help but swoon a little at the soft feel of the material. It's certainly a fabric I've never worn before in my life.

The price tag is still attached, and I can't help but take a peek. I nearly pass out when I see the number. Too rich for my blood. I slip the hanger back on the rack and move on.

Halfway down the room I find a small, flat screen attached to the wall with a single button beneath it. Curious, I give the button a push. The screen instantly flashes to life.

"Good evening, Mr. Anderson," says a computerized female voice. Whoa. They have computerized closets in this place? A series of symbols flash across the screen. "What would you like to wear?" the voice prompts.

I reach out and tentatively tap the icon shaped like a suit. "What occasion?" says the voice. The screen gives me a number of options, everything from "Garden Party" to "Riding." I guess rich people need computers to help them figure out the proper attire for all their weird events. I tap "Supper" and hope for the best.

Now the screen shows me a series of pictures, one of each outfit that's supposedly appropriate for current needs. I scroll through the images, and I can't help but wonder as I peruse the selections how much each one costs. There's probably enough money in this one room alone to keep all of the Center's programs afloat for a year, maybe more.

But I won't think about that. I can't—not if I don't want to fly into a murderous rage.

My finger pauses over an image on the screen: a casual, cerulean-blue popover shirt and the system automatically recommended a pair of slim fit khakis. Even if they aren't my exact size, it'll still look fine thanks to the flattering cut. It's nice and suits my style, and it doesn't look overly expensive—not that you can always guess. I'm not sure what to do from here, so I tap my finger on the picture of the outfit.

"Items located in F12-AFD," says the computerized voice.

_F12-what? _I glance around, and I notice that the lights above one of the racks are brighter than they were a moment ago. I walk over, and after a moment of searching, I locate the blue shirt and pants.

I peel off my wet clothes—including my underwear, since they're also soaked—and fold them over the edge of what I hope is the dirty clothes hamper. I pull the outfit on carefully.

Once everything is on and tucked where it should be, I go over to the floor-length mirror on the far side of the room. The shirt fits me well enough, but even a billionaire's nicely colored shirt can't do much for my hair. I attempt to comb through the mess with my fingers, since there doesn't seem to be any product in this room. Oh well. I won't be the classiest thing to ever sit at the Anderson's table, but I'm passable. Certainly decent enough to fight for the Center's future.

I squeeze my feet into a pair of brown wingtips that I happened to see in the corner of the room and head back out to the hallway.

Blaine is already waiting for me. He's leaning against the wall, but he straightens when I step out of the bedroom. His eyes run up and down my body.

"That suits you, Mr. Hummel," he says.

I ignore the compliment, but I can't keep the flush from rising to my cheeks. I also can't help but notice that his clean clothes suit him, too. He's wearing pressed black pants and a pale gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair is still slightly mussed but seemed a bit drier than it had previously.

"Like what you see?" he says. I make a disgusted noise to hide the fact that he's caught me staring.

"I couldn't care less about what you look like," I say. "I'm here to talk about the Center, that's all."

"Of course, Mr. Hummel." He gives a little smile, and I know he doesn't believe me for a minute.

"Shall we go down to the dining room, then?" He holds out his arm, and after a moment of hesitation I take it. He's carried me through this house over his shoulder. There's no reason I should be afraid to place my hand on his arm. But a prickle dances up to my elbow when I lay my fingers on his skin. I pretend not to notice. His other hand comes to rest on top of mine, enveloping my fingers in warmth, and I ignore that too. He can play the gentleman all he wants. I know he's still an asshole at heart.

The way down to the dining room is longer than I expect—this place really is humongous. You could get lost for weeks in here. And everything is ridiculously ornate: every banister is carved with intricate patterns, every floor spread with richly colored rugs, every wall hung with row upon row of artwork. I squint at some of the paintings as we pass, hoping to recognize a few of the artists—an enthusiast like the late Richard Anderson probably has a few works by some of the modern masters among his collection—but we move too quickly for me to make any connections.

"I can give you a tour later, if you like," Blaine says when he sees my interest.

I shrug noncommittally. I don't intend to stay here any longer than I need to. I plan to make my best case over dinner and then head home. Still, I can't help but marvel. This place is insane. One minute I'm interacting with a computerized closet like someone in a sci-fi movie, and the next I'm wandering through a corridor that looks like a nineteenth-century museum.

Finally Blaine stops in front of a pair of wide double doors.

"Here we are." He releases my hand and opens one of the doors for me, and I step through into what has to be one of the most extravagant dining rooms in existence. I mean, who needs a table long enough to seat thirty? Or a chandelier the size of a small car, with easily two or three hundred little bulbs that flicker just like candles? My eyes follow the chandelier chain, and I gasp when I notice the ceiling.

"My grandfather commissioned that mural after a trip to Italy," Blaine says.

I snap my jaw closed and tear my eyes away from the elaborate pastoral scene above our heads. I'm not sure whether to be enthralled or repulsed by the beauty and excess of this room, and it leaves me with an unpleasant jumble of emotions in my belly. Instead I walk over to the long table, where now I see a single place has been laid at the head.

"I've alerted the kitchen to the extra company," says Blaine. "Martin should be up with the food any moment." He's gone over to a cabinet against the nearest wall, and when he turns toward me, he has several pieces of china in his hands. He comes over to the table and lays them out at the place to the left of his own: dinner plate, salad plate, cup and saucer. He returns to the buffet cabinet a second time, and this time he returns with the full array of silverware, including several pieces I've only ever seen on the rare occasions I've been to a particularly formal restaurant. But what did I expect in a dining room like this?

I shoot another glance at the painting on the ceiling and slip into my seat. There's no reason we can't start talking about the Center while we wait.

"Mr. Anderson, I—"

"What do you drink, Mr. Hummel?" he says. "Would you care for a glass of wine?" A part of me knows that drinking is a bad idea, but another part knows a bit of alcohol in my system might make this whole thing more bearable.

"I don't suppose you have any whiskey?"

He chuckles. "I'll see what I can find." He strides over to a polished mahogany liquor cabinet and flings open the door. A moment later he returns with a glass and a bottle of amber liquid, which he holds in front of me for approval.

"Single malt. Fifty-two years old," he says. It's a make I've never heard of—probably because I'm used to drinking the cheap shit—and I suspect that this bottle, like everything else in this freaking house, cost a small fortune.

Ah, what the hell.

"Looks perfect." I try not to cringe as he pours me a glass. How much could even that much whiskey buy the Center? Some new brushes? A fresh coat of paint for the rec room?

Blaine is oblivious to my thoughts. He returns the whiskey to the cabinet and returns to the table with a glass and a bottle of wine for himself. I raise my drink to my lips and take a sip as I watch him pour his merlot. I have to admit, this expensive stuff is smooth, if nothing else. I'll have to watch myself —it would be easy to drink too much if I wasn't paying attention.

"Mr. Anderson," I begin again, setting my glass back on the table. "I really think—"

A door at the far end of the room flies open and an older man in chef whites bursts through, a cart of food behind him. The chafing dishes rattle as the cart bounces over the threshold, and again when the man stops suddenly, apparently startled to see us.

"Forgive me, sir," he says, blinking at us. "I didn't realize you were in here already."

"It's no problem," Blaine says jovially. "Mr. Hummel and I just sat down. It's my own fault for springing company on you at the last minute." He glances at me. "Mr. Hummel, this is Chef Martin, the best in the business. He's been with my family for, what, thirty-five years now?"

"Thirty-seven this winter," the chef replies with a smile.

"And Martin," says Blaine, "this is Kurt Hummel from the Brooklyn Center for the Arts."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hummel," says Martin. He wheels the cart the rest of the way over to us, and now it's close enough for the aroma to hit me. My stomach lets out an appreciative rumble.

"That smells amazing," I say.

"It'll taste even better," Blaine says.

The chef laughs. "Mr. Anderson flatters me."

"Not at all," Blaine replies. To me he adds, "Martin studied in Paris back in the day, and he spent time training in Italy and Austria as well."

"All that," the chef says, "and it took me fifteen years to learn to prepare vegetables in a way that would entice Mr. Anderson to eat them."

I smile in spite of myself.

"In all fairness to Martin," says Blaine, "I still contend that some vegetables are supposed to stay in the dirt and shouldn't be eaten at all."

"A sentiment that I consider a challenge." Martin grins and leans toward me conspiratorially.

"When he was little, I used to purée veggies and hide them in the sauce. And you don't even want to know how many green goodies I managed to sneak into his meatloaf."

This time I let out an actual laugh. The chef flashes a ruddy-cheeked smile at me.

"His worst offense," Blaine says, feigning annoyance, "was when he told me my Brussel sprouts were shrunken alien heads."

"One of my proudest moments," Chef Martin says. "You managed to choke down four before you realized I'd tricked you."

"Martin can't keep a straight face to save his life," Blaine tells me.

The chef chuckles. "Would Mr. Anderson like me to serve?" he says.

"I'll handle it from here, I think," Blaine says. "Thank you, Martin."

"Of course, sir." He smiles at us. "Let me know if you need anything else." He retreats back out the door from which he came, and Blaine stands to go to the cart.

"He insists on calling me _sir_," he says with a little shake of his head. "Or _Mr. Anderson_."

"What's wrong with that?" From where I sat, the two of them genuinely seemed to get on very well.

Blaine shrugs and grabs the bowl of salad from the top of the cart. "He says it's a sign of respect, but it just makes me feel old. He used to call me by my name, but then my father died and I—" He pauses, looks at me, then shrugs again. "And now I'm the one who signs his checks."

He sits down and scoops me a serving from the salad bowl. The tongs clang against the side of the bowl, and when I glance up at his face, I notice that his brows are drawn together, his mouth tight. His high spirits of just a moment ago have completely disappeared. He seemed so genuinely happy around Martin—what happened?

_Now I'm the one who signs his checks_, he said. These past few months have completely changed Blaine's life. Now he bears the financial burdens of this family, and it looks like he isn't particularly pleased by this new set of responsibilities. And why would he be? He's spent most of his life without having to think about that sort of accountability.

I'm not sure what to say, so I pick up my fork and look down at my plate. Pear and arugula with soft crumbled cheese—_wow_. If this is the salad course, I can't wait to see the rest. My stomach rumbles again, and I dive in with as much ladylike grace as I can still muster.

For a long while, neither of us speak. I'm not sure whether talking will improve matters or only make them worse, and the last thing I want to do is broach the subject of the Center when he's in a foul mood. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the scrape of our forks against the china. I notice him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I don't acknowledge his gaze. _He_'s the one who suddenly got all awkward. Let him be the one to start the conversation again.

Unless...

I take another bite of arugula. Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe this silence is some sort of weird intimidation technique and he's trying to psych me out. He's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to hear my spiel about the Center, and now he's making sure I fuck it up. He's trying to get under my skin before I even start.

I grab my glass and take another swig of whiskey. I focus on the warm trail of the liquid as it slides down my throat. It pools in my belly like a little lump of courage.

I'm being crazy, freaking out over nothing. He's probably just being polite and waiting for me to begin. We had a deal, after all. I should just go ahead and spit it out already. I take one more sip of my drink and slide it back on the table.

"I know you haven't had many chances to visit the Center," I say, sliding my finger across the edge of my glass, "but I really think if you came by you'd see how much work we do for the community. And how much your family's contributions mean for our programs."

I glance up to find Blaine staring at me, his fork frozen halfway between his plate and his mouth. He lowers it again slowly, his eyes still locked on me, and I squirm in my seat.

"Not yet," he says, taking up his wineglass. I stare at him, confused.

"What?"

"It's not time to discuss it yet." He takes a sip of his wine. "I think we should enjoy our dinner first."

I frown. "We had an agreement."

"We still do. You sit through dinner with me, and I sit through your speech about your little Center." He leans toward me, his eyes intent on mine. "Trust me, Mr. Hummel, I always keep my word."

"I'm not sure I do trust you, Mr. Anderson," I say. His hand slides toward mine on the table, and his finger brushes against the back of my palm. It sends a tiny shiver up my arm.

Blaine smiles, his eyes dancing wickedly. "You should, Mr. Hummel. Believe me, I think you would enjoy the experience very much."

I snatch my hand away from him. "I'm not going to fall for that," I say. "I'm not one of your supermodels. I'm here for the Center, that's all." I can tell from the way the corner of his mouth curls up that he doesn't believe me. This guy isn't used to men resisting his charms. That and he doesn't even know that I'm gay! "I broke onto your property," I remind him. "And I dripped mud all over your precious house. Besides, I don't think I'm your type. And why would you even assume that you're mine?"

"You don't think I can admire a man with a little spirit? I told you before, Mr. Hummel, I admire your tenacity. And a few of your other assets, truth be told. And we both know that I'm your type – you may have some fooled with your looks, but I can spot a fellow gay man like no other."

"You didn't seem particularly admiring when you were threatening to call the cops on me," I counter, resisting the blush that I can feel blooming under his assumptive statement. "If you think you can make me forget about why I'm here, that I'll just throw over the Center for the chance to sleep with you or something, you're an idiot."

Humor dances in his eyes. "I never suggested that. I've already made it clear that I'm attracted to you, and it's quite obvious that you're attracted to me as well. I'm just saying that I don't see why you can't have it both ways. Or, come to think of it, why I can't have you a few dozen ways in the meantime."

"You're disgusting," I say, standing up and throwing my napkin down on the table. "This is serious. The Brooklyn Center has done remarkable things for this community and its people—more things than you'll ever appreciate or, dare I say it, do yourself, despite all your money or your fucking talking closets and fancy ceilings. If you refuse to talk about it... if you're just going to be ridiculous and crude, then fine. I won't waste any more of your time." I turn and storm toward the door.

"You can't leave," Blaine says calmly after me.

"Watch me."

"No," he says, just as my hand reaches the doorknob. "I mean it's actually impossible for you to leave. Do you remember that mud you trampled through on your siege of my home? I'd imagine the front walk is entirely flooded and with all the rain and potholes in the city, I highly doubt you want to take that clunker on a potentially life-ending drive back to Brooklyn. And car barely looks like it would make the block, let alone drive you any further regardless of rain. And with this weather, you'd likely sit in your shitty car for hours – making you late and exceedingly grumpy I'm sure."

My blood goes completely cold. I freeze, my fingers closed around the doorknob. "You're lying."

"I'm afraid not," he says, still as calm as ever. He raises his wineglass to his lips and takes another sip. "I'm afraid, Mr. Hummel, whether you like it or not, you'll be staying here with me tonight."

Panic rises in my throat. "You mean I'm stranded here? With you?"

"It appears so." Blaine eyes me over his glass. "You don't have to look so terrified. I'm not going to devour you or anything."

"That's not exactly the impression you gave me a moment ago."

"Believe it or not, I prefer my men consenting. Enthusiastic, even. Until you're willing to admit that you're attracted to me, I won't lay a finger on you. After that..."

"There won't be an 'after that'. I'm not attracted to you. Quite the opposite, actually. You're an asshole, and I don't care if I'm stuck here tonight. Nothing is going to happen between us."

"Very well then," he says, nonplussed. "But since you can't leave, would you care to return to the table? I don't want Martin's hard work to get cold while we sit here at our little stalemate."

"It's not a stalemate," I insist. "There's no discussion here. Nothing will happen between us." He nods, unconcerned, and I want nothing more than to smack that smug smile off of his face. Is this really all just a game to him? Is he getting his kicks by pissing me off?

A part of me wants to storm from the room. Whether I can actually make it back to Brooklyn or not, I don't have to stand here and take this from him. But sulking out to my car feels more childish than sitting back down at the table, and I won't let him make me feel like a sullen brat. I sigh and return to the table, sinking into my seat and taking up my fork without giving Blaine a second glance.

He's watching me, though. As soon as I put the last bit of salad in my mouth, he's on his feet and back at the cart again. He removes the lid from one of the silver chafing dishes, and a heavenly aroma greets my nostrils. Damn him and his brilliant personal chef. I'm not feeling very complimentary right now, but my taste buds water in defiance of my dark mood.

The main course is pecan-crusted salmon with a side of buttered white asparagus. He serves me again, as he did with the salad. I offer him my polite thanks before falling back into silence.

The food does little to temper my anger. Neither does the way Blaine keeps looking at me. I still can't believe his arrogance. He thinks he's won, that I'm halfway into bed with him already. He's so used to men just falling over themselves for him. Well, not me. Hell will freeze over before that happens. I may be stuck here, but that doesn't change anything.

I sneak a glance at him when he leans forward to grab the wine bottle again. Sure, I can appreciate his looks from a purely aesthetic point of view. Those broad shoulders and strong jawline have, I'm certain, left many a man swooning. If I'm being honest, the longer hair and stubble and slightly relaxed appearance suit him far better than the über-polished look he sported at Arts & Hearts. But does that mean I'm attracted to him? No. He's still an ass, and a shitty personality can make even the finest man on earth seem ugly.

"Enjoying the view, Mr. Hummel?"

Heat floods my cheeks, but I recover quickly. "Merely musing on how arrogance can really bring a man down a few notches in the looks department," I say.

"Interesting observation." He pours himself more merlot. "Frankly I've found that most men – and women, for that matter – seem to find confidence an asset, rather than a detriment to my appearance."

"Arrogance and confidence aren't the same thing."

"Aren't they, though?" he replies. "In my experience, most people respond quite favorably to a man who isn't afraid to tell them exactly what he wants and then follow through on it."

"Maybe you just attract the men who are easily blinded by money and compliments."

"Tell me, Mr. Hummel," he says, "why are you here, if you're not interested in my money?"

"That's not the same thing at all."

"Isn't it?" He gestures with his fork. "Perhaps you're asking for a different application of the funds, but you're still interested in my money."

"What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I'm not accusing you at all," he says pleasantly. "I'm just asking you to take a hard look at what you're doing here before you start casting judgment on other people."

"You're one to lecture me on morality," I counter. He shrugs. "I'm only making an observation." _No_, I think. _You're only trying to bait me_. He's enjoying this whole thing too much, and I'm making it way too easy for him. I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Continuing to get angry won't solve anything. I don't want to give Blaine the satisfaction of thinking that he's gotten under my skin. We spend the rest of the meal in silence. More than once I think about raising the issue of the Center.

After all, we had a deal. But I'm too emotional right now. Even if I thought that I could change his mind about the Center—which I don't anymore—I can't even put together a coherent argument while I'm this worked up.

When I've eaten the last bit of food on my plate, I set down my fork.

"Tell Martin he outdid himself," I say evenly, though I'm still actively fighting the urge to smack him upside the head. "Everything was wonderful."

Blaine smiles. "I will." He eyes drift to my empty glass. "More whiskey?"

I shake my head. "Actually, I'm really tired. I think I might just go to bed."

If he's disappointed by that, he doesn't show it. "Do you need help finding your way back to your room?"

I wish I didn't, but I know I'll get lost if I try to find my way back on my own. I nod reluctantly. I swear—if he tries to make a move on me, I'll knee him in the groin. Blaine retains his easy confidence as we make our way back through his house. I'm not sure how the arrogant bastard does it—how can he act so nonchalant, as if we never argued? Is it some skill he picked up from a lifetime of Never Having to Give a Damn?

I study him out of the corner of my eye as we walk. His moods seem to swing all over the place— one moment he's cocky and sexually aggressive, the next he's laughing with his personal chef, and still the next he's quiet and sullen and bitter. His face is carefully blank now, but what the hell is going on his head?

_This man lost his father recently_, I remember suddenly.

My own dad's face flashes in my mind, and my stomach twists. Whatever I think of Blaine, I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone. He hasn't said much about the event except to reference his new status in the house. How is he handling all that? It can't be easy.

The hair, the scruffy appearance, the shadows under his eyes—they're probably all signs of his emotional turmoil over the last few months. Richard Anderson was a good man, and I had the opportunity to speak with him several times about Center projects and business. He was genuinely passionate about our work, and about spreading the joys of the arts among people of all socio-economic classes—one of Will's main goals when he founded the Center all these years ago.

I wanted to go to Richard's funeral, but it was a closed, private ceremony—family only. There were no photos in the tabloids, though of course there were plenty of ridiculous speculations about what did him in: drug overdose! Suicide! Murder (by the Mob, naturally)!

Will mentioned a couple of summers ago—some five-odd years after Richard began making significant financial contributions to our cause—that the man's health was fading. I suspected heart disease, but it wasn't honestly my place to know or ask. I can imagine what the family's been through these last few years. A slow death means plenty of time to say goodbye, but it can also cast a shadow over a family for a long time before and after the end actually comes.

I feel like I should say something or commiserate about losing a family member to illness, but before I can decide whether or not to offer my condolences to Blaine, he catches me watching him. Instantly the shadows in his face are replaced once more by wicked flirtatiousness. I quickly look away again, in no mood to suffer his charms.

"It's too bad you're tired," he says. "I would have liked to give you a tour, since you seemed so interested in the art before." He gives a little chuckle. "I believe I remember you mentioning the dungeons, too."

I roll my eyes. "I don't believe for a minute that you actually have dungeons."

"You'd be surprised."

"Is that where you keep your suit of armor?" I say. Every old mansion has one of those, right? "If you pull on its sword, does it reveal the door to some secret passageway?"

He chuckles. "No suits of armor, I'm afraid. There are, however, plenty of secret passageways in this place."

I snort. "Yeah, right."

"It's true. When my great-great-father had this place built, it was still considered widely unfashionable for anyone to ever see the servants. There's an entire network of passages and staircases behind the walls."

"You're just fucking with me."

"You don't see it very often," he admits. "But I think it gives the place character. When I was younger, my friends and I used to have epic games of hide and seek."

"That sounds like something out of a book," I say. "Did you ever find Narnia?"

He lets out a laugh at that—a belly laugh, not one of the smug chuckles he's been sending my way all evening. "No Narnia," he says. "But if there were any magical passages in this place, they wouldn't be inside. They'd be out in the maze."

I nearly trip over my own feet. "You have a maze?"

"The fourth-largest hedge maze in North America, last I heard." _Whoa_. That's serious. Secret passageways _and _a hedge maze? Under any other circumstances, I would be delighted. This place is absolutely fascinating—no wonder the family has always been so weird about letting the press have a peek. If you share the secrets of a house like this with the world, they lose some of their luster. I'm not too proud to admit that I'm in a privileged position here, getting to look around. Blaine is even offering me a full-out tour.

But thoughts of the Center creep in again, and now all I can see is the elaborate excess. If you can afford to maintain a hedge maze, is it really such a huge thing to fulfill your pledge to a small nonprofit organization?

Blaine seems to sense the sudden change in my enthusiasm. "If you change your mind," he says, "you can contact me through the electronic tablet mounted on the wall next to your bed. I should be up for a while yet."

I nod, but now that I've remembered my reason for coming here in the first place, I'm no longer particularly interested in his dungeons and his mazes. By the time we reach the bedroom I used earlier, I'm no longer sure what to say to him.

Fortunately, he takes the lead.

"I'm very sorry things have been so... contentious between us. I think, under different circumstances, you and I might get along very well."

_You mean circumstances where you don't screw over the Center? _I think, _Or just circumstances where I actually succumb to your advances? _I don't voice the question aloud.

He's studying my face. "I'm not a terrible person," he says finally. "We all must make difficult choices sometimes." _Of course_, I tell myself. _Whether to honor your family's pledge or pay for your next European jaunt is an extremely difficult decision. _I shift my weight from one foot to the other. His dark eyes are boring into me. It makes my skin go hot, then cold. I really wish I knew what wasgoing on in his head.

I suspect he's stalling, testing the waters, looking for some hint of attraction or consent in my expression. Will he proposition me outright again? Or is he the type to grab me and kiss me without warning, and just bank on the fact that most women melt under his warm, soft lips? The image sends a strange tickling sensation across my skin, and I break his gaze. My heart is thumping madly in my chest, but I tell myself it's nerves from the awkwardness of the situation.

"Goodnight," I say, before this scene spins out of control.

"Goodnight, Mr. Hummel," he says. "As I mentioned before, I'll be up for a while, should you change the mind about the tour."

"I don't think I will. I'm really very tired."

He nods, and I reach for the doorknob. He makes no move for me as I retreat into the bedroom, and it's only after I shut and lock the door behind me that I let out a sigh of relief.

That was close.

I'll admit, a part of me is surprised he didn't try anything else. He was so blunt and open over dinner. Maybe he's finally accepted that I'm not going to jump into bed with him. Or maybe he changed his mind about jumping into bed with me.

There's a pang in my stomach at that thought, and I tell myself it's only bruised pride. Why do I care if he hits on me or not? I don't want him, and I certainly won't be climbing into bed with him anytime soon. Sure, he's not _completely _unappealing from a physical point of view, but there's more to a person than his looks. He's an ass, and he's personally responsible for the financial struggles of the Center. That's reason enough to stay away.

There's no reason to trouble myself about it any longer.

I'm not really that tired, but now that I'm here, I'll admit I'm more than a little excited to try out that awesome four-poster bed. It takes me about two minutes to find a set of pajamas in the enormous closet, and once I'm changed I waste no time before diving headfirst into that glorious pile of comforter and throw pillows.

It's as heavenly as it looks.

I let out a sound of contentment and tug the fluffy white comforter around me. Maybe the trip out here wasn't just a waste after all. This is absolutely glorious. I'd sell everything else in my apartment if I thought I could manage enough money to recreate the experience of this bed.

But the thought of finances brings my mood down again. I can't truly enjoy anything in this place while the Center struggles. It feels like a betrayal. I'd love to have a bed like this, but I'd give it up a hundred times over for a chance to save the Center.

There are a lot of other sacrifices I'd make for us, too.

I roll over and grab my phone from the bedside table. My finger clicks through my contacts. After a moment, I reach an entry named "Do Not Answer: Dipshit," and my thumb hovers over the call button. Will has been begging me for two months to call my ex-boyfriend, but I've resisted every time.

I've told myself I'm being strong, but I wonder now if I'm only being selfish. I keep telling myself I'll do anything for the Center—hell, I've broken onto the Anderson estate—but that's not the truth. Am I really willing to sacrifice the Center because I'm afraid to talk to Adam? Because I'm trying to avoid an uncomfortable situation? Does my ex really hold that much power over me still?

_You don't know that he'll be able to do anything_, I tell myself. _He's a great salesman, but that doesn't mean he'll be able to succeed where you and your dad have already failed._

So what if our donation numbers were through the roof when he volunteered with us? I know firsthand how convincing he can be when he turns on the charm. Will used to say that Adam could "sell green cheese to a moon man." But a part of me still refuses to believe that he's the only one who can get us out of this mess.

_Besides, _I tell myself, _you don't even know that he'll agree to help you at all. _I don't have to make this decision tonight. One more day won't change the Center's situation.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Insert M-rating here... _

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

Rather than call that asshole, I click back through the contacts and call Will instead. "Hey, Kurt," he says when he picks up. "Any news?"

I try not to notice the desperate hope in his voice. "Not yet, I'm afraid," I say carefully. "But I'm still working on it." I feel terrible lying to him like this, but he'd be so upset if he knew the truth. I can't bear to add even that much stress on top of what he's already dealing with.

"You're still out there?" he says. "At this hour?"

I find a loose thread along the edge of the comforter and twist it around my finger. "That's what I've called to tell you," I say. "The weather's really bad and the roads flooded. I'm not going to be able to make it back tonight."

He immediately switches from over-worked director into over-protective Dad mode despite the fact that he's not actually a father in the slightest. "Are you all right? Do you have somewhere to stay? Is your car okay?"

I give a small smile at his concern. "I'm fine," I assure him. "The car, too. I'll try to finish up here in the morning and come straight over after that."

"Are you sure you're all right? You sound... stressed." Even though he's already struggling with so much, he's still concerned about me. It makes me feel even worse.

"I'm just tired," I tell him. "I'm fine, really."

"Okay, Kurt," he says. "Get some rest, you hear?"

"Of course."

We hang up and I toss my phone on the nightstand. We're going to get through this, he and I. We have to. Aside from my family, he's the closest thing I've got locally to filling that void and I don't want - no, can't - let him down.

I don't really feel like sleeping now, for all that I told Blaine I was tired. I toss and turn for a little while, but I know it's a lost cause. Finally I throw off the comforter and climb out of bed. I'm too restless to keep lying here.

I begin to pace around the room, determined to wear myself out. There are plenty of ways to distract myself in here, at least. For a few minutes I stand by the window, trying to spot the hedge maze through the dark and rain, but I don't see anything. Next I wander back into the closet and peruse the electronic directory, looking for the most ridiculous outfit I can find, but I get bored with that pretty quickly.

Which leaves me with only one option: to search for secret doors.

I mean, how often do you find yourself in a house with hidden passages in the walls? Assuming Blaine wasn't pulling my leg, of course. I'm one of only a handful of people who will ever get to see the inside of this place; it's my public duty to explore the possibility of secret passageways. Or so my exhausted, sleep-deprived mind tells me.

I start at the main door and work my way around the room. I find a flat screen television hidden behind a mirror and a mini-fridge behind a panel near the bathroom. Apparently rich people like to hide their conveniences behind expensive decorative items. But I find no doors in the walls, nor any buttons or levers hidden under shelves or behind lamps. I spend a while at the electronic tablet next to the bed, but though I discover a radio, house directory, and even a weather-reporting application among its options, there's no magic "open sesame" button.

I come to the elaborate fireplace last. If this were a fantasy or kid's cartoon, the fireplace would be the key. The carved stone mantel is ridiculously ornate; all it should take is the right amount of pressure on the right decorative leaf and a doorway will open up behind the gas logs. I've seen it a hundred times.

I work my way from right to left along the mantel, pushing and prodding every bit of stone.

Nothing moves. When I've poked at every leaf and twist of vine, I go back in the opposite direction, trying everything again. Just in case.

Nothing happens.

I'll admit it—I'm a little disappointed. If there are actually secret passageways in this house, none of them appear to start in this room. I step away from the mantel, and in the process I trip over the rack with the fireplace poker.

"Mother fuc—" I break off my curse when I hear the scrape of wood and stone behind me. I stand and turn. _You cannot be fucking serious. _A portion of the wall has swung inward, revealing a dark hallway beyond. A secret passageway. An actual secret-fucking-passageway. Blaine wasn't lying after all.

I walk over and peer inside. The corridor is pitch black. I can't tell how long it is or which direction it ultimately leads.

But dark or not, there's no way I'm not going exploring.

I run back to the bed and grab my cell from the nightstand. Hopefully the light from its screen will be enough to keep me from falling and breaking my neck.

_I can't believe I'm actually doing this_, I think. But then again, I never expected to break onto the Andersons' property or wear their clothes or eat their food. I never expected to sleep in one of their giant, fluffy beds. _No turning back now_, I tell myself. I hit a button on my phone to bring the screen to life, and then I step into the darkness of the passage.

I move slowly along the passage, the phone held out in front of me. The faint blue glow from the screen is just enough to keep me from walking into the walls. The corridor twists and turns ahead of me, and after five minutes I've already completely lost my bearings. I have no idea which direction I'm going or where I might end up. My only consolation is that there's only one way back, so it's unlikely I'll get too lost.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I begin to notice other details. At regular intervals along the walls, for example, I start spotting small, nondescript door handles. Some have even been brushed with pale paint, making them easier to spot among the shadows. I stop at one and give it a wiggle. The door creaks open, revealing the dark room beyond.

Part of me wants to venture out into the room, but another part feels weird poking around without Blaine. I step back into the passage and pull the door closed behind me. I tell myself I should turn around and go back to my bedroom, but something drives me onward. I want to see where this secret corridor leads.

It's only a few minutes later that I discover the first set of spy holes.

At first, I think I'm imagining things, but it's hard to miss the slivers of light that fall across my path. There's a pair of narrow slits in the wall, right at eye level, and they're too perfectly round to be cracks. I step closer and look through them. On the other side, I can see a long, dimly lit hallway. It appears to be empty.

Were these passages really just to hide the servants? Geez, I feel like I'm suddenly in the middle of a murder mystery or something. Is someone suddenly going to spring from the shadows and bop me over the head with a candlestick?

I continue along the passage, but now I'm on the lookout for more spy holes. They're harder to spot when they're looking onto a dark room, but I find a set that offers me a view of an unlit office, then a couple of pairs revealing bedrooms. There's not much to see, really, but still the entire thing feels deliciously wicked. I can only imagine a couple of reasons for why people would want spy holes looking into bedrooms.

And that's when I find Blaine's room.

His lights are still on, so I spot the holes long before I even hear the hum of the television or his own movements around the room. I know it's wrong, but I can't resist taking a peek. My heart thumps in my ears as I press my hands against the wall and bring my eyes to the small openings in the paneling.

I'm struck immediately by the sleek modernity of his room. The walls are a pale steely blue, the furniture sleek and black. The flat screen television mounted on the far wall is flashing the local news.

Blaine moves across the room, a towel around his waist.

_Damn._

His dark hair is wet, and it curls delectably against his neck. I try not to ogle his bare chest dusted with a light amount of hair, but it's hard to ignore. He's quite muscular, from his broad shoulders to his chiseled waist. I've seen pictures in the tabloids, of course, but a grainy photograph is nothing compared to Blaine in the flesh.

_And just a couple of hours ago, he hinted he wanted to take you to bed_, I remind myself. I could be in there with him right now, if I wanted, with my fingers running across those smooth muscles. I could—

I jerk back from the spy holes. What am I even thinking? I hate this guy. Okay, so he's moderately attractive. I've already acknowledged that to myself. But I made the right decision. I don't regret turning him down.

Still, I can't keep myself from moving my eyes to the spy holes again, nor can I ignore the heat that rushes up my neck.

_He's a selfish bastard_, I remind myself. He turns, and I have a clear view of his perfectly sculpted back.

_Damn_. I'm in trouble.

He wanders over to a cabinet at the side of the room and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid. I watch his every movement, breathless, as he pours himself a glass. He takes it down in one swig and slams the glass down against the table. Then he lets out a long sigh and runs his hand through his hair. My own fingers tingle as I imagine wrapping them around those dark, wet strands, then sliding down his—

_NO_. What the hell am I doing? I have more self-control than this.

But I'm drawn back to the spy holes like a magnet. Try as I might to deny it, I can no longer lie to myself: Blaine is an extremely attractive man, asshole or not.

_Not just attractive_, I think as I watch him pour himself another glass. _Insanely-fucking-sexy._

I'd like to think that I'm different from all the other men who seem to just fall at his feet. That I won't allow myself to be distracted by pecs and abs and toned biceps. That I won't allow myself to be taken in by a jerk who just happens to have a charming smile. I've been there with Adam. I won't make the same mistake a second time.

_But there's no reason I can't fantasize a little_, I tell myself. I'll never actually let him touch me.

Blaine's still standing next to the sideboard, his hand on his glass. His shoulders are tense, his muscles tight, his eyes focused on some invisible distance. I itch to go in there, to rub his shoulders and help him relax, but I quickly fight down the urge. It's no wonder he's tense, after the way he's handled the Center—and undoubtedly other organizations as well.

But in spite of myself, I imagine my fingers sliding over his chest, tracing those smooth muscles, sliding down the hard shape of his body. I want to feel the heat of him, know the velvet softness of his skin beneath my touch. My heartbeat quickens as I picture the path my fingers would take across his flesh.

Blaine is completely oblivious to my thoughts. After a moment he turns and moves back toward the bed, glass in hand. I watch his muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves.

He puts his drink on the nightstand and picks up an electronic tablet. He turns toward the television and presses the tablet screen a few times. The channel changes with every tap of his finger. When he's found something he likes, he sets the tablet back on the nightstand. His hand moves to his towel.

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it away from his waist. Suddenly he's completely naked, and I have a full-on view of his backside.

_Dear sweet mother of pearl._

He's a freaking god.

A moan from the television is the only thing that could tear my eyes away from that hard body. I glance up at the flat screen, and my heart just about stops when I realize what's he's watching. There are two naked men on the screen, and one's straddling the other, his hands roaming over his partner's chest towards his dick.

I jerk away from the spy holes again. I know I shouldn't be shocked—people watch porn, after all. _I've _watched porn, though honestly I prefer romance novels to sleazy movies most of the time. But it's one thing to watch a dirty film in the privacy of my apartment and quite another to watch a gorgeous man watch porn from a secret passageway.

I lean against the wall. Through the paneling, I can hear more moans and heavy breathing coming from the television. I also hear the soft give of a mattress—Blaine climbing into bed.

I should go. This is wrong, standing hear listening to this, spying on Blaine as he... as he... But I can't seem to move my feet. My blood is rushing in my ears. There's an ache beginning to form between my legs, and it keeps me frozen against the wall.

In the bedroom, I hear Blaine exhale a long breath. One of the men on the television begins moaning. I can't help it. I'm drawn to the spy holes once more.

Blaine lounges on the bed, his hand around his long, hard length. My entire body goes hot at the sight of him touching himself. His hand slides steadily up and down. The ache between my legs sharpens into a throbbing.

I should go, but it's too late now. I'm riveted by the sight in front of me. I can't turn away. I slip the hand that doesn't hold my phone beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms. My fingers slide between my legs, seeking the evidence of my building frustration. I'm already hard, and my flesh quivers at even that first, light touch.

My eyes move to the television again. The man on top leans forward and closes his mouth around his partner's nipple. My cock stiffens more as I hear the moans come from the screen and a harsh breath come from Blaine's mouth. What would Blaine do if he knew I was here? If he knew I was growing aroused at the same movie he watched, at the sight of his hand around himself?

I slide my phone into my pocket and move the hand in my pants to tease one of my balls. In my mind it's his hand, his fingers groping and relishing in their weight. In my mind I'm in his room, next to him on the bed, and it's my hand wrapped around him, sliding up and down his length. My aching cock is building to the point of pain.

In the room, Blaine's hand begins to pump a little faster. His breathing has quickened with his movements. My own breathing is short and shallow. I can't see his face, but I remember the way his eyes burned into mine, the hunger I saw in their depths. He wanted me. Maybe he wants me still. Maybe it's me he's thinking of now, just as I'm thinking of him. I move my fully around my length with my fingers around my cock, gripping tightly and jerking expertly in rhythm with Blaine's movements.

On the screen, the guys appear to follow my lead. The one on top has moved aside just enough to be able to reach between his partner's legs. The other man moans and writhes against him, responding to the weight of the hand rubbing against him.

Blaine makes a sound in his throat. He's getting close. I am, too. It's all I can do to fight back the moan forming in my own throat. This is wrong, so very wrong, but I can't help myself. I can't remember the last time I was this aroused by anything. The wickedness of it all just makes my body respond all the more.

On the bed, Blaine sucks in a breath. I slump against the wall, no longer able to watch and hold myself upright at the same time. I increase the speed and pressure of the hand on my cock. I'm no longer concerned about hiding the heavy sound of my breathing. I'm too far-gone to care.

I want him. Fuck it, I want him. I don't care if he's a selfish jerk. I still want him. I want him to throw me up against the wall and ram his fingers, or better yet his cock, inside of me. I want him to make me scream.

Climax hits me hard, rushing over me with such intensity that I let out a moan before I can stop myself. I freeze, my hand still grabbing my now spent dick, waves of pleasure still shuddering through my body. My legs are shaking. I stay against the wall, unable to move, terrified. There's no way he didn't hear my moan. No way.

I wait for a secret door to come flying open, for Blaine to burst into the passageway and catch me at my spying, but nothing happens. Maybe he thought my sound of pleasure had come from one of the actors on the television. Maybe he was so caught up in his own pleasure that he thought he'd imagined it.

The euphoria is fading from me now, and with it reality sets in: I just spied on Blaine while he touched himself. I just watched that, and I was so aroused by the whole thing that I touched myself, too.

I force myself away from the wall. My heart is careening wildly and my legs are still trembling, but I can't stay here. I can't believe what I've done. I can't believe I let it get this far. I hurry down the passageway, back toward my room.

_This never happened_, I tell myself. Still, I can tell already that my body won't let me forget this anytime soon.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Because I love y'all, here's another chapter. Things are DEFINITELY just starting to get interesting. :) Thanks to everyone for your reviews, follows and favorites! I'm sorry that I'm a little slow with responding, but I'm traveling so I'm somewhat out of pocket. _

_Much love!_

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Morning comes too quickly. My hair still feels damp from the shower I took after returning to my room last night, but I don't care. I switch out of the spare pajamas and back into my clothes from yesterday. They're stiff and crusty from the dried mud, but that doesn't matter. I'm eager to get out of here as soon as I can. If I can sneak out without running into Blaine, then all the better. He doesn't really deserve more than a thank-you note, I tell myself. Not after what he's done to the Center. It's cowardly, I know, but I don't know how to face him, not after last night. I don't think I can look at him again after what I've done.

But luck isn't on my side. When I open the door to the hallway, hoping to slip out quietly, I find myself face to face with Blaine. He stands there in front of me, fist raised as if he'd been about to knock on my door. A slow smile slips across his lips.

"Well look at that," he says. "Perfect timing." His eyes slide down my body, and his smile fades as he takes in my clothes. "Why are you wearing that? Certainly you can find something clean that fits you." My stomach flips, and not entirely because of his scrutiny—though admittedly that stings, too. I can't look at him without remembering last night, without picturing him naked and lounging on his bed, his hand around his hard length. Without recalling how much it had aroused me. My body reacts even now to the memory, and I reach out and grab the doorframe to hide the fact that my legs are quivering.

"I... I thank you for your hospitality," I say. "But I really need to be going."

His frown deepens. "You can't go anywhere. Haven't you looked outside? With the water damage, they've opened up the street to make repairs and the whole street is blocked off." My fingers tighten on the doorframe. I throw a glance over my shoulder, back toward the long windows on the far side of the room. One of the curtains is slightly ajar, and through that sliver I can see that the sky is still gray and rainy and the faint sounds of a crane or some sort of machinery is humming in the background. I hadn't even considered the possibility that the storm might still be raging outside or how it could have damaged the city streets. How long am I going to be trapped here?

Blaine is studying me. "There's no need to look so upset. There's breakfast waiting downstairs. You haven't lived until you've tried Martin's French toast."

I'm still a little shaken by the thought that I'm going to be stuck here another day. I can't look him in the face. I can hardly speak to him. I just keep seeing him naked; keep hearing the moans from the women on the television. Even now, my body has started to react once more. I want to slam the door in Blaine's face. I want to run back to the bed, throw the covers over my head, and hide until I forget what I've done. Until the heat leaves my skin and I feel like a normal person again.

But no—freaking out won't solve anything. I force myself to take a deep breath. Blaine's given no sign that he knows I watched him last night, and my weirdness will only tip him off. I have to be calm. Pretend it never happened. Put on a smile and act like I don't feel more awkward than I've ever felt in my entire life.

"Let—let me change," I say. "I'll be right down."

"I'll wait. I don't expect you to find your way there by yourself."

I can't argue with that, so I give him a nod and retreat to the closet. I let myself browse through my clothing options for longer than I should, but it gives me a minute to settle down. _You can do this_, I tell myself. _Forget about last night. He'll never know what happened. Remember_ _what he's doing to the Center. Remember how much you hate him. _It helps, somewhat, to embrace the anger. _That _I can deal with.

I select a casual day outfit from the rack and quickly change. I've got to face him sooner or later, and putting it off isn't going to make it any easier.

Blaine flashes one of his charming smiles when he sees me. "Another fine choice," he says, giving me an appreciative once-over. I ignore the flutters in my stomach.

"Thank you," I reply. I force myself to take the arm he offers, but when he closes his hand over mine, all I can think about it how I watched that same hand move up and down himself last night. My skin burns under his fingers, but I can't pull away without looking rude or suspicious.

We walk in silence. His thumb brushes against the back of my palm, and I can't tell if it's an intentional caress or an accident.

_The Center might close because of him_, I remind myself over and over and over again.

"I trust you slept well?" he says, his fingers tightening on mine.

"Fine, thank you," I squeak out.

"Good." I sense him watching me out of the corner of my eye. "If there's anything I can do to make your stay here more enjoyable, please let me know. The satisfaction of my guests is very important to me."

The way he says _satisfaction _sends a shiver through me. I pray he doesn't feel it through our interlinked hands.

Breakfast is even worse. I can't even appreciate the amazing French toast because I'm so aware of Blaine's every movement. I'm afraid he'll touch me again, accidentally or otherwise, and every time his skin brushes against mine, I remember the way I longed for that very contact last night, how I imagined his hands on me instead of my own. My knuckles are white around my fork. I'm going to go insane unless I can trick myself into thinking about something else.

_Think about the Arts & Hearts dinner, _I tell myself. _Remember how aloof and disinterested he was? He never cared about your work. He didn't even bother to pretend._

The rage gets me through a few more bites of food, and when that memory starts to fade, I think about Will—about the sadness and the fatigue that seem a permanent part of him now. His whole life is in the Center. He's sacrificed so much over the years—the great salary, the cushy lifestyle, even his marriage to my mom—all so he could bring arts and hope to a struggling community. And now it's all about to slip away from him. Because of Blaine.

"You seem a little preoccupied this morning," Blaine says. "Aren't you enjoying your food?"

"No, it's great," I say quickly. "Martin outdid himself." I push at a piece of syrup-drenched crust with my fork. "I'm just not a morning person, that's all."

He seems to accept the explanation. "Are you certain you slept well?" he says, looking at me a little too intently. I squirm in my seat. Does he know? _Please, dear God, no. _"I was going to suggest that since we're stuck here together, I might give you that tour after all. We'll have to skip the maze in this weather, but if you like, I can show you a couple of those secret passages." I nearly choke.

"I don't want to trouble you," I say, coughing. "I'm sure you have work to do. You don't have to entertain me just because I'm stuck here."

"It's no trouble at all. I've got some things to take care of later, but there's plenty of time for me to show you around before then. At the very least, I'll point out a few places you might entertain yourself while you're here. The house has a number of surprises."

There's no graceful way out of this. The last thing I want is to end up in one of those dark, hidden corridors again, especially with Blaine, but I'm still too flustered to come up with a good excuse on the fly.

"I need to make a few calls myself," I say.

"A short tour, then. And it's still early. You'll have plenty of time to make your calls first."

I have no other arguments, so I just nod. "A short tour."

He smiles at me, but it's not one of his usual disarming, charming smiles. This one is wicked, hungry. There's a dark gleam in his eye. "Trust me," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "I'll make sure you enjoy it."

That's exactly what I'm afraid of.

When I get back to my room, I pull out my phone. The calls were an excuse, but it's probably still a good idea to let Will know I'll be delayed longer than I expected. I hate leaving him alone back at the Center, but there's nothing I can do. I'm stuck here, whether I like it or not.

Will's flustered when I get him on the line. He sounds even worse than he did last night.

"What's going on?" I say.

He sighs. "Ella quit this morning. She felt really bad about it, you could see, but she found a position at an office downtown. Not that I blame her. Her last paycheck bounced. We were going to have to let her go soon anyway, and she was smart enough to see that."

I don't blame her either. Ella's stuck with us through a lot, but she has to make a living, just like everyone else. Still, now there's even more work on Will's shoulders.

"I hate to leave you swamped," I say. "I promise I'll be home as soon as I can. As soon as the road's clear, I'll be back. I'll stay at the Center all night if I have to."

"Don't stress about it. I can handle it for now. You just worry about winning over those prospects. That's more important right now anyway."

Guilt twists my stomach. "I'll do what I can."

"Good. I know you will. Bye."

"Bye." I hang up, feeling like the worst employee in history. I don't know how I'm ever going to confess the truth of my trip out here, or my spectacular failure. It's my own fault for being so impulsive—and for ignoring Will's wishes in the first place.

I put my face in my hand. The guilt of this situation is going to eat me alive. I just wish there was something I could say, something I could do to fix this whole mess. Instead, I'm running into one dead end after another and lying to my boss in the meantime. It's like I'm just waiting for everything to explode in my face.

My fingers skim over the keys of my phone. There's still one option open to me. Like it or not, Adam might be our only chance. At least if I secure his help, I won't have to face my boss completely empty-handed when I return tomorrow.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll through my phone and click on Dipshit's number. I hold the cell up to my ear and wait, breathless, as the line rings once, twice, three times.

Voicemail picks up, and I almost cry in relief. I can deal with leaving a message.

"Adam, it's me. Kurt," I say. "I know this is out of the blue—I hope you're doing okay. I know we haven't talked in a while." I don't admit it's because I've refused to return his calls all these months. "It's just I—well, you see the Center's in a little trouble. We lost our largest pledge, the one we were counting on to pay off those renovations from last year, and we've had to divert program funds, and—and I guess you don't need to know all the details. It's just that things are looking bad for us, and you were always so good at finding donors. Will and I have been doing everything we can, but if there's any way you could help—I mean, I know it's a lot to ask, and I understand completely if you say no. I just wanted to... ask."

I sit there in awkward silence for a moment, and then I remember that it's still recording.

"That's it, then," I say quickly. "You have my number. Please think about it." And then I hang up before I can make an even bigger ass of myself.

_Ugh_. I flop down face-first on the bed. I try to convince myself that I did the right thing, but I feel like I'm going to vomit. Adam was the first great love of my adult life—or so I thought. There was a time I believed he was the perfect man: successful, intelligent, attractive, charming. I was so head-over-heels for him that I didn't notice when he started to take little digs at me.

Well—I _did _notice, but I assumed all of his little comments and critiques were true. I changed my hair because he told me he thought long hair made my cheeks look too round. I changed the way I dressed because he told me my favorite jeans were too sexy and invited too much attention.

It took me way too long to realize how emotionally manipulative he was.

_This isn't about you_, I try to remind myself. _This is about the Center. You can handle this. _Right now a tour of this place with Blaine actually sounds like a nice distraction. I roll over and resist the urge to laugh. Has it really come to this? Is being around that sexy asshole of a billionaire really the lesser of two awkward situations?

I close my eyes and wait for Blaine to return, wondering how I managed to get myself into such a mess.

"Did you finish your calls?" he asks when he arrives at my door.

I nod, pretending that I'm not stressing over the fact that Adam has yet to respond to my message. I'm not even sure I want him to. The thought of talking to him again makes my stomach turn, but the thought of losing the Center isn't any better.

"I thought we'd start at the top," he says, his eyes drifting across my body. "Then work our way down from there."

My stomach twists. "What?"

"The top of the house," he clarifies, flashing an amused smile. I look away. He's doing that on purpose, trying to make me blush, but I won't let him think he's unsettled me. He can't know I'm attracted to him—and he definitely can't get any hint that anything might have happened last night.

"That sounds good," I tell him evenly. I study my host out of the corner of my eye. Today he's wearing a gray T-shirt and dark jeans. He looks so _normal_. If I passed him on the street I'd never guess he came from all this. My eyes linger on the way his sleeves stretch over his shoulders, the way his hair curls down around the collar. He still hasn't shaved, but he doesn't look sloppy. Just deliciously sexy.

I glance away before I get worked up again. I'm not here to ogle Blaine. I'm not some sort of animal or sex fiend. I'm a professional man who came here to save the art center I had grown to believe in.

Blaine leads me up a flight of stairs. My bedroom was already on the second floor—where the heck is he taking me? My question is answered when we reach the top and he throws open a door. Cold air rushes in around us. He's brought me up to the roof.

"I hope you're not afraid of getting a little wet," he says, his eyebrow quirking. I try to ignore the sexual implication of his words. His hand grazes my lower back as he ushers me outside. A tingle races across my skin. I step away from him, but the heat from his touch lingers on my spine.

The roof is, no surprise, spectacularly beautiful. This section is covered by a high pavilion ceiling,

and globe lanterns dangle from the beams. There's an entire freaking kitchen up here—complete with a large stone oven—a full bar, and of course the sort of furniture that puts the grungy couch in my apartment to shame. Beyond the pavilion, a pool stretches across the roof, its silvery surface dappled by rain. The surrounding patio is done in gorgeous red-brown stone. The whole scene looks like something I've only ever seen on one of those fancy television design shows.

"What do you think?" Blaine says. "Want to go for a swim?" I must show my shock on my face because he lets out a laugh. "Haven't you ever been for a swim in the rain?" he asks. "You get damp either way."

I'm not sure if he's being serious or not. "I don't have a swimsuit," I remind him. The corner of his mouth curls up.

"Not a problem." Before I can utter another word, he pulls his t-shirt over his head, exposing his perfectly chiseled chest. My mouth falls open, but I snap it quickly shut again.

"What are you doing?" I say.

He grins. "Swimming." His hands move to the button of his jeans.

"Are you stripping?" I'm unable to keep the shock out of my voice.

"I'm not going to swim in my jeans," he says matter-of-factly. His fingers pause on the zipper.

"You're welcome to join me, of course."

"I—" My entire face is on fire. "I'm not going to take off my clothes."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself. You're missing out, though." He unzips his jeans and slides them down in one movement, revealing a pair of dark boxer-briefs. Once more I'm bombarded with memories of last night, of his naked body reclining on the bed. Of the way I touched myself at the sight of him. My body responds in turn now. I clench my hands and unclench them again, trying to gain control of myself. Blaine hooks his thumbs in the waistband, and my heartbeat quickens. Is he going to pull those off, too?

"For someone who's shy about skinny-dipping, you certainly have no qualms about watching," he says.

I almost fall over. "I—I'm not watching," I say, quickly turning away. "You're the one who tore off your pants without warning." I imagine I'm the color of a ripe tomato right about now.

He chuckles. "Come, Mr. Hummel. It's nothing you haven't seen before."

My blood runs cold. _Oh my God. He knows about last night. _"What—what's that supposed to mean?" I demand, still refusing to turn and look at him. "What are you implying?"

"Forgive me," he says, his voice thick with amusement. "I didn't mean to give offense. I was only suggesting that by this point in your life you've probably seen a naked man or two—unless I'm mistaken?"

"I'm not a virgin," I say, rolling my eyes. "But that doesn't mean I'm okay with men just stripping off their clothes in front of me." _No, but I'm all right with spying on those same men while they pleasure themselves in their bedroom._

Forget the ripe tomato—I'm probably as red as a fire truck right now.

"Well," says Blaine behind me, "if you're not comfortable with complete nudity, then maybe we can keep our undergarments on."

"I'm _not _swimming."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" he says. "May I remind you that you broke onto my property? That I had to wrestle you down in the mud? Certainly you can't be afraid of taking a little dip in the rain."

"I'm not afraid," I say, spinning on him angrily. He's closer than I thought—just in front of me now.

There's still a bit of amusement around the corners of his mouth, but his dark eyes bore into me. Butterflies dance in my stomach. "If you're not afraid," he says, his voice breathy and low, "then why are you resisting?"

He's so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, so close that I can smell the musky scent of his soap—or is that only him? All it would take is the smallest of movements and I could brush my fingers against his bare stomach, learn if his skin is as soft and smooth and hot as I imagined last night.

"I..." I don't know what to say. I don't have an excuse, not really, except for the general sense that this is a bad, bad idea.

_Oh, I'm in trouble._

Blaine must sense my indecision, because his eyes suddenly darken. Before I can react, he grabs me around the waist, just as he did on the lawn yesterday.

"What the—" I cry as he hoists me off my feet. "What are you doing?" He doesn't answer. Instead he turns and starts carrying me to the pool. "Put me down!" I cry, pissed that I fell for his trick a second time. "I swear, if you throw me—"

Suddenly I'm flying through the air, Blaine's arms still around me. We crash into the pool, and water rushes all around us. He releases me when I start to struggle. I kick my way back up to the surface, gasping and coughing as I come up for air.

"What the hell?" The pants I borrowed are now tangled around my knees and my hair is clinging to my face. I flip the wet strands away from my eyes.

Blaine, meanwhile, is laughing his ass off. "Come on. It's just a little water."

"I'm wearing your _friend_'s clothes," I remind him. I felt bad enough about borrowing them in the first place.

"I offered you an alternative," he says, still far too pleased with himself. He stands up, and the water spills down his body. I try not to notice the way the drops slide down the grooves between his muscles. The corner of his mouth twists upward.

"Ugh," I say, before he can accuse me of checking him out again. "You're despicable, you know that?" I turn and start trudging through the water toward the ladder.

I hear sloshing as he moves after me. "Come on, Mr. Hummel," he says. "Just a little—"

"No!" I say, spinning back toward him. I move my hand as I do, trying to keep him back, and in the process I send a wave spraying up at him. I splash him square in the face. He stops, blinking and sputtering as the drops spill out of his eyes and mouth and nose.

It takes a moment for him to recover, and when he does, he stares at me with astonishment. "Did you just splash me, Mr. Hummel?"

"I... not on purpose. I—"

He moves toward me, and I stumble back, instinctively throwing my arms out again and sending another surge of water at him. But he's prepared this time, and his eyes light up devilishly. "Now it's on," he says, lunging for me. I let out a squeak and splash him again, and he responds by splashing me back in turn. I gasp as the cool spray of water hits me in the face, but now the competitive side of me kicks in. Blaine Anderson is going down.

He makes another lunge for me, and I twist out of his reach, diving underwater as his hands sweep past my hair. I shoot through the water, and when I come up—some ten feet behind him—he has such a look of astonishment on his face that it's my turn to burst out laughing.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," I inform him. His eyes light up at the challenge. He moves toward me again, and I send another spray of water in his face. When he's blinking and coughing, I dive under once more. I don't know what's come over me. It's probably just the absurdity of the situation: swimming in a rooftop pool—in the _rain_—wearing an outfit that probably costs more than my rent. I feel strange. Reckless. I'm playing along with Blaine, letting him chase me through the water. I'm laughing and splashing and, dare I say it, actually enjoying myself.

But then, finally, I'm too slow—by accident or not, I can't say—and Blaine catches me by the arms. I gasp as he pulls me upright, spins me around to face him. The rain is coming down a little harder now, spilling down our faces, and I shake the wet hair from my eyes and look up at him.

His eyes are dark, intense, hungry. He's breathing hard from our little game, but I find that I can hardly breathe at all. His fingers are firm around my upper arms, as if he's afraid I'll try and escape his grip. But I can't move. I'm not sure I want to.

He moves so slowly that I sense more than see him leaning toward me. His lips are slightly parted. My own lips feel suddenly dry.

I want to say something—to stop him, maybe, or perhaps to urge him onward—but the words die on my tongue. He's so close now that I can feel his warm breath on my cheek.

_I can't. I..._

Thunder crashes overhead. I jump, and the moment is broken. _What the _hell _am I doing? _

"We need to get out of the pool," I say, pulling out of his grip.

"Kurt—"

"I'd rather not get electrocuted." As if to punctuate my point, lightning flashes overhead just as I reach the pool ladder. Apparently the universe agrees: this was a terrible idea.

What am I doing, splashing and flirting and encouraging him? I almost let him kiss me, for freak's sake! This guy stands for everything I hate—am I really going to fall for his stupid little tricks?

I haul myself out of the water. The air is startlingly cold, and I wrap my arms around myself as I march back toward the pavilion. The slacks cling to my legs, but I try to move as gracefully as I can. I can feel Blaine's eyes boring into my back.

But why should I care if I look graceful or not? I let things get carried away in the secret passageway last night, but I thought I had enough self-control to behave rationally when we were face to face.

_You hate him_, I remind myself for the hundredth time today. _Think of the Center. Think of Will._

And I do. I close my eyes and remember my boss's face the morning I left. He was poring over a stack of invoices, so absorbed that he never realized I was standing in the doorway. He looked so tired, so defeated, so _old_—and it's all Blaine's fault.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't realize he's behind me until he tries to wrap a towel around my shoulders. I jerk away and glare up at him.

"You're freezing," he says, holding the towel up again.

I grab it out of his hand without another word. He has another towel for himself, and it only reminds me of the scene I witnessed last night in his bedroom. I turn around and begin drying myself off.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about," he says after a moment. "It's all right to admit that you're attracted to me."

"I'm not embarrassed. And I'm not attracted to you." I don't sound very convincing.

"Why don't we swing back by your room," he says. "You can change, and we can continue our tour." He's challenging me. I hear it in his voice. If I say no, if I refuse to go on with this tour, I might as well admit that he's gotten under my skin.

"Fine," I say.

I'm strong. Yes, I've had a few moments of weakness, but I've learned my lesson. It won't happen again.

I only wish my body shared those convictions.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

The first thing I do when I get back to my room is check my phone. There's a new message. I take a deep breath and press the voicemail button before I have the chance to lose my nerve. I know without even looking at my missed calls that the message is from Adam. "Hey, K. Got your message. Give me a call back when you can."

His voice is casual, as if my calling him was perfectly ordinary—as if I haven't spent the last several months actively ignoring his attempts to contact me. There's no anger in his voice, but there's no pleasure, either. His tone gives no indication of what he thinks of my request. I'm instantly suspicious. For all I know, he wants me to call him so he can laugh in my face.

But I'm not going to let myself take the coward's way out any longer. This isn't about me or my pride. It's about the Center. Before I can talk myself out of it, I click the button to call Adam.

This time he picks up on the first ring. "Hey," he says. My stomach twists at the sound of his voice, and it's all I can do not to hang up on him. I take a deep breath.

"Hey. Did you get my message?" I immediately want to smack myself. _Of course _he got my message. "I know it's a lot to ask," I say quickly. "And I know you have no reason to help me, but I just wanted to...ask. You know how much the Center means to Will. If you saw him, you'd see what this has done to him. We're trying everything we can. I'm desperate..." I cut myself off when I realize my rambling has twisted itself into begging.

"You'd have to be pretty desperate to call me," Adam says after a moment. I still can't tell if he's pissed.

"I just thought—well, you seemed to care a lot for the Center back when you worked with us," I say carefully. "I know things didn't end well between us, but I thought you might still have some affection toward the Center."

For a minute, he doesn't respond. "I do," he says finally. "You know I do, Kurt. I have a deep respect for the work you and Will do."

I'm standing next to the fireplace, and I reach out and run my finger along one of the carved stone vines.

"Well?" I say softly. "Will you help us?"

Adam sighs. "I don't know, Kurt. What happens if I do? Will you start talking to me again? Or will you cut me out of your life again once you get what you want?"

"That's not fair," I argue.

"Isn't it? You've refused to talk to me for months. You're only friendly now because you need something."

"What was I supposed to do all this time?" I say. "I needed the space to get over you. Our relationship was... honestly, it was fucked up. And then Patrick—"

"I've told you a million times, Kurt. Patrick was a mistake." He lets out a heavy breath. "I know I can't expect you to just come running back to me, but I think I deserve some common courtesy here."

"You don't deserve anything," I whisper. Hearing his voice again, listening to him say _his _name, having to defend our breakup after all this time—it's too much. It just brings up all those old memories again. I thought I could handle this, but now I'm not so sure. "Forget it," I say. "I don't need your help after all."

"Kurt," he says, his exasperation clear in his voice. "There's no reason to—"

"No. Forget I ever called." Before he can respond to me, I hang up and throw the phone down on the nightstand.

_Ugh_. I flop down on the bed and close my eyes. This is all a fucking mess. I should have let Will talk to Adam. Now I've gone and blown it.

I knew talking to Adam would be difficult, but I told myself I'd suck it up for the sake of the Center. Why couldn't I just tell him what he wanted to hear? Instead I let my anger get in the way, and the Center was still screwed.

I still remember those last, horrible months we were together. I was desperately afraid that Adam was slipping away from me, and I was torturing myself trying to keep him happy and interested. The day I caught him, I was planning on making his favorite dinner as a surprise. I ducked out of work early so I could get everything ready, and instead I walked in on him with Patrick, a fellow journalist who he'd always insisted was just a "friend."

Even now my stomach twists at the memory. To be honest, it's not even _him _that I'm pissed at. It's the fact that I gave up so much of myself—and became such a pathetic, sniveling mess there at the end— that really makes me angry. I never told anyone the truth about our breakup. It was too humiliating.

_Never again._

A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. "Kurt?" Blaine says. "Is everything all right?" Damn it. I completely forgot about changing. I haul myself off the bed and avoid looking back at the wet patch I probably left on the comforter.

"Just a minute!" I say. I run into the closet and pull the damp shirt over my head. Fortunately, Blaine seems to have no shortage of clothes in here. I find a black pants and a green shirt, and I pull them both on quickly. Again, there's not much to do with my hair, so I comb it with my fingers and try not to look at myself in the mirror as I go back out. Why do I care what I look like, anyway?

Honestly, though, I have far more important things on my mind. My conversation with Adam left me feeling hopeless and sick to my stomach. I threw away a valuable opportunity because I couldn't get past my own twisted emotions. I didn't realize how much I was relying on his help until that course of action slipped completely out of the window.

And then there's Blaine. It's pretty clear he doesn't want to make good on his father's pledge, but I don't have the luxury of giving up on him just yet. If I'm going to convince him to give us the money his father promised, I'm going to have to step up my game. I might just have to get creative, that's all.

_Just get creative_, I repeat to myself.

An image of his naked body pops into my mind, and my body responds almost immediately. I can think of a few ways I might try to convince him.

The prospect is both terrifying and strangely exciting. I don't even know where to begin seducing a man.

I mean, I suppose I know how to bat my eyelashes and make the slightest suggestion to my crotch through wearing ties pointing at my goods subliminally or things like that, but that just seems so amateur, especially when we're talking about a man like Blaine Anderson.

He's already made it clear that he wants me. But how do I play that to my advantage without seeming too obvious?

I study him once more from the corner of my eye as we continue our tour. He hasn't made any references to what happened at the pool, and I'm perfectly fine with that. Still, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he angry with me? Confused? Indifferent? How am I supposed to know how to flirt with him if I can't figure out his current feelings toward me?

He's perfectly pleasant as he leads me through the house. And I must admit, the house is freaking amazing. More than once I find my attention wandering from my self-imposed task to my incredible surroundings.

He shows me a lounge, a game room, a library that rivals the public one back home. Just when I think I've seen everything, he leads me into the family's own personal movie theater.

"Is this real?" I ask.

The room is huge; with stadium-style seating and a screen so large I wonder how they managed to get it in here in the first place.

"My father loved movies," Blaine says. He's standing close enough to me that I feel the tiny hairs stand up on my arms, but I pretend not to notice.

"He must, to build a room like this," I say. My fingers itch slightly. I should probably reach out and touch him—just a small, casual touch. One that might come across as an accident. Just an innocent little touch to get him worked up.

But before I can raise my hand, he moves past me. "My father was particularly fond of the James Bond films. He used to have a marathon every year on Ian Fleming's birthday."

I smile in spite of myself. "They're good movies."

He chuckles and turns back to look at me. "He had some of his suits custom-made to look just like Bond's. And for his sixtieth birthday, he hired a bunch of stunt actors to help him recreate his favorite scenes out in the garden." I grin at the image. In my dealings with Richard Anderson, I'd always found him a friendly, likable man, but I never got to witness the goofier side of him.

"My dad is a huge Indiana Jones fan," I say. "Now I know what to get him for his next birthday." Blaine laughs with me, but his eyes are still distant, and I know he's thinking of his father. "You must miss him," I offer. The words sound lame now that they've left my mouth. I'm not very good at comforting people.

He blinks and turns away from me. When he speaks, the vulnerability of a moment ago is gone and there's a hard edge to his voice. "My father was a selfish bastard."

My mouth falls open. "Your father did so much for the Brooklyn Center."

"One good act doesn't make a good man."

"But certainly he—"

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," he snaps, spinning on me. I stumble back a step, stunned. I want to tell him that that's no way to speak of the dead, especially a dead parent. But I'm afraid of the emotion I see in his eyes. Blaine pulls his hand through his hair. His shoulders are rigid, defensive. Just a moment ago he was speaking with such longing, such admiration—and I know I didn't misinterpret the affection in his eyes when he spoke of his father's love of James Bond. What's changed? Why is he suddenly so tense? He did the same thing last night at dinner, when the subject of his father came up.

_Don't be so hard on him_, I try and tell myself. _He lost his father only a few months ago. You'd be a mess, too, if your dad died_. Just thinking of Dad's past medical history churns my stomach. Imagining his death... that makes me physically ill.

"Well?" Blaine says, snapping me back out of my dark thoughts. From his annoyed tone, I suspect I've missed something he's said.

"Well...?"

"Are you ready to move on? Or would you rather stare at the movie screen for another ten minutes?"

I almost think I preferred him when he was trying to get in my pants. "Let's go on," I say, hoping that a change of scenery will get him back to normal.

It does, but it takes two floors and numerous rooms before he begins to regain a bit of his charm. He shows me a lush conservatory, an indoor gym, a study with an enormous fireplace. He shows me the bedroom he and his brother were convinced was haunted when they were younger, and the large room of his father's collectibles where he and his brother used to play hide-and-seek. Talking about Cooper seems to make him happier, and once more I see the nostalgia and boyishness return to his eyes. I don't say anything, though, except to admire this piece of furniture or that decorative wall hanging. No surprise, it's all extremely beautiful—and undoubtedly extremely expensive. I try not to think of how the Center might use that money.

_Don't forget why you're here_, I tell myself. _Don't forget what you need to do._

I need to step it up. I already screwed up with Adam. I can't let this opportunity with Blaine slip away from me, too.

"So," I say, resting my fingers gently on his arm. "Where to next?"

His eyes flick down to my hand, then back to my face. "I thought maybe you might enjoy the gallery."

"Gallery?" He hasn't mentioned anything like that to me yet.

"My father and my grandfather both collected art. As you can probably already tell." He gestures at the walls as we move along the hallway, indicating the paintings and sculptures I've already been studying as we pass. "The gallery is where they kept their favorites."

I can't help the quiver of excitement that runs through me at the thought of viewing the Andersons' collection. Richard had a reputation for his fine taste, and I've no doubt that his father before him did as well, judging by the pieces I've seen here so far.

Blaine notices my reaction. His fingers close around my own. "I knew you'd be excited. Come on. It's not far." The skin of my hand tingles where he touches me. I want to pull away from him, to try and regain a bit of control, but the action would be too suspicious. Instead I let him lead me down the hallway and pretend the warmth of his fingers isn't making my stomach do somersaults.

Blaine turns me down another hallway and leads me to a pair of large double doors. He pushes one open, and I gasp. The room beyond might have been in a museum. It's long, with a high ceiling, and there are so many works along the walls that I know I'll never have the chance to properly examine them all.

"This is insane," I breathe. Beside me, Blaine chuckles. I slip out of his grip and walk over to a glass case against the nearest wall. Inside, there's a collection of small jade figures.

"My father picked those up on a trip to China when I was about ten," Blaine says beside me. "There were actually two more, but my brother and I stole them. We ended up losing both of our figures out in the garden. My father was furious. He grounded me for a month. Just me, because I was the one who actually broke into the case."

I can't help but smile at the image of a young Blaine forced into such punishment. Though honestly, being grounded in this place doesn't sound like a bad thing at all.

I glance up at him, and I'm a little startled to catch him watching me. I look away, heat creeping up my neck, but I know I can't waste this opening.

"Tell me," I say sweetly, turning and looking down the length of the room. "Do you have a favorite piece in here?"

He rubs his chin, his thumb skimming along that perfect line of stubble.

"That's a tough one," he says. His gaze flicks back to me, and there's humor in his eyes. "Maybe you should guess."

It's a challenge, and I'm not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. If I play this right, I might be able to ramp up our flirtation a few notches without making him suspicious.

"What are the stakes?" I say lightly.

His eyes darken. "You're leaving it up to me?" A flutter stirs in my gut, but I don't want him to know how much his suggestive gaze affects me. I need to hold the power here. I shrug.

"You suggested the game. You should name the prize."

His mouth curls. "That's some dangerous power you've given me."

I match his wicked smile with one of my own. "You better not abuse it."

"Even if I think you'd enjoy it as much as me?" I don't dignify him with a response. Instead, I turn and begin walking down the length of the gallery. "I'll go easy on you," he calls after me. And then, far too quickly, "If you guess incorrectly, then you have to give me a kiss." A kiss. All things considered, he could have suggested something far worse. I pause as if considering. _Let him think he's thrown me off-kilter._

"How many guesses do I get?" I ask.

"As many as you want. As long as you pay up every time you're wrong." I can definitely see this game spiraling out of control very quickly. Better place a limit on things.

"Let's make it a one shot deal." I tell him. "It'll be more interesting that way." Even though I know my odds aren't good, it's still better than trusting myself to kiss him a dozen times. "What happens if I'm right?"

"Then you don't have to kiss me," he says, grinning. "Unless you want to, of course." I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"This bet's a little one-sided, don't you think?"

He shrugs. "You're the one who told me to name the stakes." He's right, of course. And I'll play along. If indulging him gets me any closer to recovering the pledge money, I'll do whatever it takes.

"All right," I call back to him. "It's a deal."

The corner of his mouth curls up in that charming little half smile of his. He spreads his arms wide. "Make your guess," he says, his eyes gleaming wickedly. "I'll be waiting."

"How do I know you won't change your answer if I guess correctly?"

"You can trust me," he insists. I'm not sure I can, but this is going too well for me to want to pick a fight. He seems to be enjoying our little game, and I mean to play him for all he's worth. I continue my stroll down the gallery, scanning the art on either side of me as I pass, looking for anything that jumps out from the others. I'm at a major disadvantage here, that much is certain, but I'm willing to lose this battle if it means ultimately winning the war.

Still, the competitive side of me wants to give it my best shot. I'd really love to see his face when I get it right. My eyes roam over the collection. There are paintings of every style and medium I can imagine, as well as sculptures of clay, wood, metal, even marble.

I stop in front of an oil painting depicting a nude woman lying on a bed of wildflowers. Her arm is curled around her head, her leg slightly raised. It's a very sensual image, and I raise my eyebrow and look back at Blaine.

"Interesting choice," he says, moving closer. "I'll admit, this piece certainly has its charms, even for a gay man like myself." His eyes roam over the canvas before flicking back to me. "You're wrong, though."

"I never said this was my guess."

"No? I believe you were about to."

"Then perhaps you should exercise a little patience next time," I say lightly, brushing my finger across the end of his nose. "Let me have a real guess, or you forfeit the prize."

The amusement deepens on his face. "Very well, then," he says, gesturing toward the rest of the room. "Make your pick." But my eyes fall to the painting beside the lounging nude.

"Is that..." I step forward, peer down at the tiny plaque beside the work. "This is a Ludlam. A fucking Ludlam!"

"Ludlam?"

"Benjamin Ludlam," I explain. "He's probably my favorite contemporary artist. He's freaking brilliant—his work combines modern techniques with a style reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites." I shake my head.

"I can't believe you have this," I continue. I've heard of Ludlam's work going for upwards of half a million dollars at auction—though, now that I think about it, that's probably pocket change for the thought brings me crashing down from my high. Half a million dollars could do so much for the Center. As much as I love seeing this painting in person, I can't forget why I'm here.

"But I'm supposed to be finding _your _favorite piece," I tell Blaine sweetly. "Not picking my own." I brush my fingers against his cheek as I turn and move back toward the Center of the gallery.

I feel his eyes boring into my back as I move away from him and continue my inspections. This collection really is amazing—but I never expected any less from Richard Anderson, the man who gave us so much support throughout the years. He was truly a man who loved and respected the arts.

I stop the next time in front of a stretch of wall devoted entirely to colorful Pop art. It's an eclectic collection, that's for certain, but it's clear that someone with practiced taste and a refined eye selected these pieces. I stare at a multi-media work depicting a brightly painted bus with a series of even brighter advertisements pasted to its side.

All the time I'm contemplating my decision, Blaine's eyes are on me. I don't even have to look—I can feel it. It's like a tickle on my skin, a sensation creeping up my spine. I don't think these particular works would count among his favorites. They're too modern, too strange.

On the opposite wall I spot another glass case, and I wander over to have a look. I know without glancing up that Blaine's eyes follow me. I sense them sliding over my body as I move. A rush of pleasure surges through me. It's intoxicating, even this small taste of power, but it's also terrifying. I can't fuck this up.

I lean over the glass case, making sure Blaine has a nice, clear view of my backside. I've always been proud of my ass. If it wins me a few points for the Center, all the better. Meanwhile, I'm perusing the items inside the case. These pieces appear to be crafted entirely of ivory. My eyes lock on one of the larger works, a long curved tusk depicting a scene at sea. On one side of the carving, there's a large ship with a number of men—some scrambling about the deck, others brandishing harpoons. On the other half, a sperm whale rises from the water, its teeth bared at the sailors. It's the sort of scene that a young, adventurous boy would love.

I glance up at Blaine, who's come to stand beside me at the case. Instead of focusing on me, his gaze moves about the ivory carvings below us. His face is carefully calm. I'm not sure what to make of it. He seems to be studying the pieces in the case as carefully as I, but I don't miss the way his gaze lingers on the same work I noticed, the long tusk with the ship scene.

"That's it," I say softly.

He blinks, look up at me, as if I've interrupted some deep thought. "What did you say?"

"That's it." I nod at the tusk. "That's your favorite thing in here."

He doesn't have his father's appreciation for form or technique or history; no, his favorite will be the one that speaks to him on an emotional level, one that inspired and excited him as a child.

His gaze shifts back to the tusk. He stares at it for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the sailors and the whale. I watch him with interest, no less because, for the briefest of seconds, he looks almost boyish. But quick as a flash, the wistfulness disappears, and his usual expression returns.

"You're wrong," he says. "It's a remarkable piece, to be sure, but I'm afraid you're incorrect."

I don't believe it. I stare at him, trying to catch the lie in his eye, but the openness of even a few seconds ago is gone. In its place is the guarded, smug Blaine he prefers to show me.

"No. You're wrong. You can deny it if you want, but that piece means something to you."

"I never said it didn't," he replies. "It's a charming scene. Nineteenth century. I believe my father acquired it from a museum."

He's cheated, and I know it. He might act indifferent, but it's obvious that he has some sort of emotional reaction to this tusk. Still, if he refuses to acknowledge it, there's nothing I can do. I won't press the issue. This whole game was about flirting, not delving into his emotions. Disappointed as I might be, I have a job to do.

"Well," I say. "If this isn't your favorite, which is?"

The question seems to knock the last of the shadows from his eyes, and he flashes me a smile before guiding me back toward the center of the room.

When he stops, we're standing in front of a round, abstract painting that is, by all accounts, exactly the opposite of any choice I would have made. It's small, probably only a foot and a half in diameter, and composed almost entirely of jagged, angular shapes in shades of taupe and tan and bronze. The shapes curve around the center of the piece, where a slash of bright red cuts across the canvas.

If I'm being honest—and I have a strong appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying something—it's one of the ugliest things I've ever seen. I don't know what to make of it.

"It's... interesting," I say finally. This has to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he knew I'd never even consider it. It's cheating, pure and simple, and he's not even being subtle about it.

"You don't seem impressed." His voice is thick with amusement. "Or is it just that I've surprised you?"

"It's very different than what I expected you to pick," I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better from another angle. "Why this one?"

He steps up behind me, so near that I can feel the heat of him against my back, even though we don't touch. "What do you see?" he asks. His breath stirs me.

I'm not sure if the question's a trick. Maybe he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment a piece that I clearly don't like. After all the fuss I've made over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I don't appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and give Blaine the perfect opening to press his own case against me. All he'd have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our students and sponsored artists create.

But it was probably Blaine's father that purchased this piece, not Blaine himself, and I generally trusted the late Richard's taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting that I don't.

"It looks like a sun," I say finally. "A muted sun—like it's covered in dust. A hopeless man's sun." I tilt my head. "Or a hopeless woman's, I suppose."

"My, but that's a depressing interpretation," he says. "Is that all you see?"

"It's your favorite. Maybe you should tell me what you think."

"Mmm." His hand brushes against my hip. "I'm afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesn't he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that can't be expressed in concrete images or terms."

"Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you mean," I say.

"Yes, smartass," he growls in my ear. I'm not sure I agree, but I'm willing to play along.

"And which 'primal' emotion do you think this painting depicts?" I ask.

"Well." He reaches around me, indicating the left side of the painting. "This bit here—the strokes are short and angry. And as you follow them around," —he gestures with his hand, pressing closer to me with the motion—"they get shorter, more agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration."

His chest is flush against my back. I can feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and once again I'm assaulted by images of him in his room last night. My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I don't want to disrupt this flirtation we've started. I just have to concentrate and stay in control.

"So you believe this piece represents frustration," I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.

He gives a low chuckle. "To an extent, yes. But look." He shifts; indicating the red slash at the center of the painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. "If the outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this part?"

I'm not sure how he wants me to answer—and I'm having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly, just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.

"I—I guess the center's the opposite of frustration," I say, noting the softer, curved lines.

"You could say that. The cause of the frustration, maybe, but also its cure." I'm not sure what he means by that. I'm too distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding slowly downward. _Easy_, I tell myself. _Stay in control_.

"But why is this one your favorite?" I press.

"Mmm." His warm breath rushes across my ear. "Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Haven't you ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through you?"

"I... don't know."

He leans forward, and his lips brush against my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I have left catches in my throat.

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

He responds by tilting his head and kissing the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head buzz.

"Mr. Anderson, I—"

"Blaine," he murmurs against my neck. His voice is deeper, but there's still a hint of amusement there. "I'm just trying to show you what I mean about the painting." His mouth brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a breath.

Warning bells go off in my head. I need to take control of this situation. I need to lead this seduction, not the other way around. But his tongue brushes against my neck again, and all of my protests slip out of my head.

Certainly there's nothing wrong with teasing him a little, letting him think I've succumbed to his charms. I'll give him a taste, fuel his desire, and then I'll have him right where I want him.

He tightens his hold on my hip, pulling me closer to him. His other hand moves to the shoulder of my shirt, yanking it aside so he can continue his soft march of kisses. I shiver involuntarily.

"Blaine," I whisper. "Perhaps we should—" I gasp as he nips at me with his teeth.

"Is that what you really want?" he says against my skin. His hand moves forward along the neckline of my shirt, his fingers skimming just beneath the edge of the fabric. He slides the garment off my shoulder, exposing my neck and collarbones.

"You have such a stunning figure," he says, his mouth against my ear once more. His hand moves lower, gliding over my chest, his touch featherlight.

My breathing is shallow, uneven. I know I should stop him, take back control of the situation, but I don't. In this moment I'm not even sure I want to.

"Feel the frustration building?" he breathes against my ear.

His hand moves lower and lower, with such agonizing slowness that I have to struggle to keep from pressing back against him. His fingers graze my nipple. I stiffen as he takes the nub and rolls it gently between his forefinger and thumb.

"It's subtle at first," he whispers, giving a soft pull. "Your blood pumping faster, your skin becoming more sensitive. The beginning of an ache between your legs."

His fingers become more insistent, pinching and tugging at my nipple. "That's where we want to focus. On that ache." I close my eyes and let my head roll back against his shoulder. My nipple is rock hard beneath his touch, and still he massages it, pulling and twisting to the point of pain. I didn't know that my nipples worked as an erogenous zone, but now I had firm proof, pardon the pun. As he continued to assault my chest, I knew I should tell him to stop, but I don't.

And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Blaine chuckles into my hair.

"We're not done yet," he says. He moves and unbuttons more of the shirt, exposing enough that it exposes my entire chest and grabs my other nipple in his hand. He repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and sensitive against his rougher skin.

"It builds slowly," he murmurs into my hair. "But little by the little the ache grows stronger, more insistent."

He moves his hand from my hip and across my upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the pants against the bulge blooming in my borrowed trousers.

"What, then, is the cause of this frustration?" he breathes. "What's the cure?" His hand slides further against my crotch. I push back against him involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel his arousal through his clothes. His hand continues to move against me, back and forth across the fabric barely concealing my arousal now.

"You can't ignore it now," he says. "You can't think of anything else. It's more than an ache, now. It's a hunger. A need."

He stops touching me, but only to loosen the belt and unzip my pants and slip his hand beneath its fabric. His fingers dance over the skin of my hip, tracing the same path my own fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my boxer-briefs, and then he shifts them down, slipping his fingers beneath and firmly grasps my erection. I shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.

I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I need to control this situation. But I can't make myself move. I can no longer pretend I don't feel an intense attraction for him, and I can't ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my skin. I'm reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last night.

"So hot already," he whispers in my ear. His hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift against his touch, looking for the pressure and grip I so desperately crave.

"Not so fast," he says, pulling his hand away. "We're doing this at my pace."

I still, and he resumes his agonizing touches, his fingers grasping firmly the softest skin on my cock. This is exciting him, too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away. He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his arousal.

"The ache is growing more desperate now. You don't know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think about is relieving that tension, finding release."

He slips the end of one finger to torture my balls and lightly nips the space just between my balls and my now quivering hole, causing me to whimper.

"You're so close," he says, his voice ragged, his finger moving slowly in and out of me. "But that just makes it worse. You're hot with need, aching for release, and the more the frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems."

It's all I can do not to grind against his hand which has gone slightly limp against my rigid cock, but I won't beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it weren't for his arms around me, I wouldn't be able to stand. My entire body is on fire, alive with need and frustration just as he claims.

"Tell me what you want, Kurt," he whispers. "Tell me." He slips his hand back up my length and starts pumping lightly, and I moan.

I want to touch him. I want him to feel this desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between us.

"No," he says gently. "This is about you. What you want."

I _want _to touch him, to make him melt beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know I'll find in his eyes. But I can't find the words to say that out loud. Instead, I close my hand over his hand as it rapidly goes over my cock and press against it. I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and instead make them work me over until I'm moaning like a whore.

_This is a bad idea_, a tiny voice in my head reminds me. _Stop him. Push him away. You're supposed to be the one in control. You're supposed to get him to..._

But for the life of me I can't seem to think of anything but the feel of his flesh on mine, the hardness of him at my back, the ache of pleasure building between my legs. I want him to touch me. To tug and push and pinch at my flesh. To take me to the brink and back.

Fuck all the rest.

I press harder against his hand. He obeys my silent order, moving his hands to have a firm grasp and moving it up and down more quickly to bring me closer. He tugs just hard enough to cause my insides to spin as I near release, and I shudder.

"You're close," he observes. "The tension has swelled and swelled and there's only one way out. You'll do anything for release. Anything to ease this frustration. Your body is ready for it, tense for that one touch that will take you over the edge."

_Yes! _my mind screams. _Yes! Take me over the edge! _"Tell me what you want, Kurt," he asks again, his voice deep and throaty.

"Do it," I rasp. "Please..." I'm shaking. Just one more touch, one more ounce of pressure. I'm so close, so close... But instead he releases me, so suddenly that I nearly fall over. I reach out and catch myself against the wall before my trembling legs collapse beneath me. I still ache, terribly, and my cock is practically screaming with the pent up frustration it feels. I was there, right on the cusp of letting go. Why did he stop?

I turn, still leaning against the wall for support. Blaine stands behind me, his shirt rumpled and his hair disheveled. He looks so fucking sexy I want to throw myself at him. His eyes are half closed, darker than usual, but I don't miss the devilish gleam in their depths.

"What—what was that?" I ask, my voice hardly more than a squeak.

He steps closer. For a brief, fluttering moment I think he means to finish the job, but instead he only brings his lips to my ear once more.

"That," he says huskily, "is the frustration I see in the painting."

What the _fuck _just happened?


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Hi guys! Just a few quick words here before the story progresses. _

_A lot of people have given feedback that they wish this fic wasn't purely derived from the original story and hoped that I didn't just reallocate genders/names in order to convert it. It's not entirely true that I did that in the first place, but there are a few reasons why I've relied so heavily on the original text. Please know that there will be some chapters that *I* will come through more, and others that the original author will; it all depends on the content of the chapter. But, I have to admit, a lot of the humor I've added myself since I think I'm a pretty funny gal. Also, for my job I adapt stories into screen/teleplays, so it's something that I'm comfortable doing while still maintaining my writing style. This fic is a little less writing intensive since the story has a lot of things to build upon to complete its arcs but I'm also a little insecure about my *own* writing knowing that this story was such a good one to start with. Basically, I'm a little insecure and a little reliant on the text, but I hope that I've been clear that this isn't my own brain doing most of the heavy lifting._

_Either way, please understand that this story is an adapted story and is not necessarily my own words coming across on paper (internet? writing? whatever!) but I certainly strive to include little bits here and there. There is a SEQUEL to this fic and I'm actually looking to take on a larger role in re-writing that rather than just adapting but we'll see how that works out! _

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

I couldn't believe that just happened. I'm not sure what surprised me more; Blaine's abrupt ending to... well, whatever that was the fact that he basically just molested me in the middle of an art gallery that contained a piece from an artist I have loved my entire adult life, or how badly I wanted Blaine.

"So, handsome, are you ready to resume our tour?"

Like fuck I am. I can hardly stand upright. He just had his fingers around me and now he wants to pretend like none of it ever happened? I'm practically naked and my cock is still straining for relief, for fuck's sake. I straighten and quickly yank my pants back up. "What the hell was that?" I say.

He withdraws his hand. "A lesson."

"A lesson?"

"You asked me why this painting was my favorite. I was merely providing a...hands on demonstration to prove my point." He rubs his jaw. "You seemed to enjoy it just fine, so I don't know why you're complaining."

"You did too," I counter, but honestly he doesn't look half as flustered as I feel. How the fuck did he manage that? I know he wants me too, that he was aroused by the way I let him touch me. "Is this some sort of sick game?"

"Not at all," he says, leaning toward me again and dropping his voice. "I only wanted you to realize how much you want me."

I wish I could deny his claim - I really do. But I can't; I _do_ want him. I want him more than I wanted a pair of heels as a child, more than I wanted Broadway when I was a teen, and more than I wanted that fantastic new Dolce & Gabbana coat I drooled over for months last season. But I don't need him to articulate that to me; it only gives him more power. At this point, I can't decide if I want to hit him or pull him against me and satisfy the erection I can feel stirring beneath my clothing. His eyes are scanning my face, waiting for acknowledgment of my attraction. Despite the fact that I basically begged him to make me come only about a minute ago—not to mention my other behavior of the last twenty-four hours—I can't bring myself to say the words. Not now.

I manage to somehow find my bearings and pull myself together - if only in my head and if only for a moment. "I'm ready now, let's please continue," I manage to utter, still slightly shaky on my feet. "Based on the size of my closet I can only imagine that the rest of your house is huge and we have a lot to cover."

He seems to falter for just a moment before a leering smile crosses his face. "It's not the only thing that's huge," he adds with a devious tone. "And you're right, there's lots more to see. Where would you like to visit next? The stables? The kitchen? Or maybe even the secret passageways. I hear they're quite... stimulating."

I feel like someone's dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. He's toying with me. He has to be. My eyes leap to his, and he's still wearing that self-satisfied smile. He has me in his power, and he knows it. He's enjoying it. There's only one way to fight that.

"The secret passageway sounds amazing," I say. "Let's start there." If my quick agreement surprises him, he doesn't show it.

"Of course," he says, holding out his arm to me. "This way."

I hook my hand around his elbow, praying that he doesn't notice how shaky I still am. His skin is fire-hot beneath my touch, but he appears perfectly calm and collected. The bastard. He must get off on making me squirm. He leads me from the gallery, and as we pass a long window I crane my neck to peer outside. The sky is still dark, the rain still pouring down. Thunder rumbles in the distance, suggesting that the storm won't be ending anytime soon. How much longer I can survive in this place with Blaine, I don't know, but one thing's for sure: I'm in way over my head.

* * *

Blaine said he needed the afternoon to "handle some things" (which made me automatically think of some things he could handle in the vicinity of my crotch), so I spent the afternoon in the room vacated by his friend that I was currently staying in. Part of me is curious as to what things Blaine would need to handle. He insinuated that it was of a business-related nature, but he can't have worked a day in his life with all of the canoodling with actors and drunken bashes in Europe he needed to attend to. I didn't let that impact me too much; I was simply thankful for the time alone just to gather myself.

Before I can mull over it for too long or rest too much, there's a knock on the door. Rather than feel calm, cool and collected, I manage to feel frantic at the thought that Blaine "Sex On A Stick" Anderson is on the other side of the door. I quickly smooth over the lines in my clothes and try to do something with my hair - to no avail - and open the door smoothly with a meek smile on my face.

Instead of encountering the man who's been running through my head for hours, I open the door to an empty hallway aside from a tray of food that's been left out. Whoever had left it has already vanished - likely through some fancy dumb elevator or yet another secret passage - though I wonder who it could be. It's funny—all this time I've been here I've only seen Blaine and Chef Martin. In a house this size, I expect it would take a small army to keep things running smoothly, but instead the place feels deserted.

In the end, I decide not to eat the food. I don't have much of an appetite, anyway. I'm too distracted. I sink down on the bed and throw my arm across my eyes. I don't know what I'm doing here. I've only made our mess worse, and now I've played right into Blaine's hands.

This is not how things were supposed to go. I can still feel his touch on my skin; feel the heat of his breath along my neck. I found Adam attractive, but I never responded to him like this. This thing—this crazy, twisted thing—is way more intense. I feel like I'm dangling over the edge of some bottomless chasm, and that terrifies me.

The worst part is that despite me knowing that he's no good, that I can't actually keep myself away. It's obvious that Blaine is bad news and is constantly proving himself even more of a jerk every time I speak with him. No one would disagree when I stated that Blaine is not boyfriend material - no one I would be encouraged to bring around my social circles and not have them think, "what were you thinking?" He's the baddest kind of bad boy - the kind that is an asshole but doesn't give a fuck while also having this smooth veneer on the outside that seems to charm people like it's his damn job.

With his lack of caring in respect to his obvious personality flaws, he still never claims to be anything other than the bad apple that he is. He's both dreadful and irresistible at the same time yet he makes no claims to change your mind about him. And what do I gain from staying away from him? He's not going to change his mind about the Center because I refuse to sleep with him. And if pride played any part in my resistance before, it doesn't anymore.

There's no denying my attraction, not now. He knows I want him. A part of me wants to march down to him right this minute and grab him and kiss him. And why not? A guy deserves the chance to do something crazy every once in a while. But I'm still hoping I might find a way to wear him down on the issue of the Center. If I could get under his skin, as he's gotten under mine... He seems to enjoy our little power games. I just need to figure out how beat him.

My cell goes off, interrupting my plotting. It's Adam. I debate just letting it go to voicemail, but I'm in a reckless mood.

"Hello?" I answer as neutrally as I can.

"Kurt." Adam's voice is thick with relief. "Listen, about earlier... I was being an ass. I'm sorry." I don't respond. "Look," he rushes on. "I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean them. You know I didn't mean them. And you know how much you and the Center mean to me."

It's a typical apology for Adam—meant, no doubt, to soften my heart a little and play on my sympathy. A year ago, I would have eaten it up, but I know better now.

"You're allowed to turn me down," I say carefully. "I know it wasn't exactly fair to ask you for anything. You don't owe me any favors."

"Actually, I think I do. And it wasn't fair of me to go off on you when you're already under so much pressure. I'm sorry, Kurt. I know how much this means to you. I'll help you. Of course I'll help you." This kind, groveling Adam scares me more than the bitter, angry one from this morning, but beggars can't be choosers.

"All right," I say. "Maybe the Center has a shot after all." I pick at the corner of the fluffy white comforter. "Will you call the Center and let Will know? He might have a game plan for you."

"You're not at the Center?"

"No, I'm—I'm in the Upper East Side. Pursuing a lead."

"All the way uptown?"

"We're desperate," I tell him matter-of-factly. "And on that note, I should go. I have something I need to take care of. Call Will, okay?"

"Of course." He pauses. "I miss you, Ku—"

"Bye," I say quickly. I hang up before he can respond and throw the phone back down on the pillow.

That could have gone worse. At least he agreed to help and The Center might have a chance of staying open and providing the life-altering services Will has carefully curated in the past few years. Normally I would be thrilled, but instead I feel uneasy and somehow unsettled by Adam's call and what he's proposing in general.

After much deliberation, I decide to dress up for dinner. Maybe it makes me look desperate to sport a pair of snug pants and a well-fitted jacket over a fitted blue sweater after Blaine's "hands on demonstration" from this morning, but my clothes empower me and I feel like the true Kurt Hummel when I'm a little over the top. He can try to toy with me all he wants, but I know that I have some power in our dynamic - even if it seems like I'm purely at his mercy. Just because he won the battle doesn't mean he's won the war.

I rush down to the dining room at the predetermined dinner time, sitting down next to Blaine, trying to ignore the glances he's sending my way. I can visibly see him follow the line of the jacket to where it ends just above the hip and his eyes seem to bulge slightly when he notes how tight my pants are.

Goal of unsettling Blaine, check.

"Would you like some wine?" he asks me. "Or would you prefer whiskey again?"

"Whiskey sounds good," I reply. I need some liquid courage.

He rises to go to the liquor cabinet, and I allow myself a peek at his backside as he walks away. After everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours, I can't help but admire the way he fills out his pants. He, too, seems to have chosen nicer clothes for this particular meal. In his dark slacks and pressed sapphire shirt, this is the first time he actually looks the part of the billionaire playboy. He turns back around, and I quickly look down at my empty plate. I won't let him catch me checking him out.

"You look very nice this evening," he says when he returns to the table.

"Nice?" He presses the glass of whiskey into my hand, and his fingers linger against my wrist.

"Breathtaking," he says, his voice low. It's the reaction I was hoping for, but I'm not sure how to respond. Instead I raise the glass to my lips, effectively extricating myself from his touch in the same motion. "I hope you had a pleasant afternoon," he says when I lower the whiskey again.

"Very relaxing." I don't want him to think I agonized over what happened in the gallery. "I hope yours was productive as well."

"Productive, yes, I suppose. But not particularly enjoyable." I refuse to take the bait and ask him why he didn't enjoy himself.

"That's good." I unfold my napkin and spread it across my lap. When I'm done, I reach out for my whiskey again, but instead of raising it to my lips, I slide my middle finger along the rim of the glass. His eyes follow the motion.

"You know," he says, his gaze still locked on the lazy, circular motions of my finger, "you never delivered on our bet." My finger freezes.

"Excuse me?"

"You owe me a kiss," he says.

"I paid more than my share."

"Perhaps. But you never kissed me, and that was our bargain."

I roll my eyes, but I'm saved from having to respond immediately by the door flying open at the far end of the room. Martin leads a cart of food into the room and wheels it over to us.

"Mr. Anderson!" he booms down the length of the room. "Mr. Hummel! You're going to love what I've cooked up for you tonight."

Neither of us says a word as Martin unveils tonight's feast. I keep my eyes carefully on my glass, and Blaine keeps his eyes on me. The chef is too cunning to miss the tension between us.

"Delicious food always softens the heart," he says casually as he serves the salad. "Things always look better when there's a good meal in your belly." He turns to Blaine. "I'll leave the rest on the cart for you, sir. Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thank you, Martin," Blaine says, but his eyes never move from me. The chef turns and walks back down the room.

Happy for the chance to change the subject, I dive right into the question I've been pondering all afternoon. "Where is everyone else?"

"Who?"

"There weren't any security guards at your gate," I say. "And I haven't seen anyone but you and Martin since I set foot in this house. Surely you aren't actually cleaning up after yourself after all of those years of people waiting on you hand and foot."

His expression goes stony for a moment before straightening his face and putting on a neutral grin. "Ah, so you think I should have a few maids, then? A couple butlers? Some gardeners? I hate to break it to you, but this isn't a period drama."

"It just seems so... empty. Don't you get lonely living in this big house by yourself?" I can't help but be intrigued, but I'm also a little sad if Blaine were to feel so alone after all of his recent losses.

"Fortunately," he says, leaning toward me, "every once in a while some tenacious young man decides to sneak through my gates and shake things up a little."

Before I can respond, he gets up and goes to the cart of food. "Change the subject all you want, but I'll have my kiss," he tells me as he dishes me my salad. "It's only fair. Don't worry, though—I won't force it on you now. I'll let you pick the time and place."

"You'll be waiting a long time."

"A long time's better than forever," he replies. "I can wait. I'm a patient man."

"I doubt that very much, Mr. Anderson, but if you say so." I grab my fork and stare down at my plate. Tonight's offering features dried cranberries and toasted nuts, and I have no doubt it will be as delectable as it looks. At least this dinner isn't a complete bust.

Blaine finishes serving himself and slides back in his own seat. He looks at me with half-lidded eyes. "There's no harm in admitting we're attracted to each other, you know." Seriously? He wants me to spell it out for him? Obviously we both can see (and feel) the attraction we have for each other, but there's no way that I'm giving in that easily.

"We've been over this already. I'm not—"

"Deny it all you want, but we both know what happened this morning," he says. "You melted like butter in my hands. I might have done anything I wanted to you and you wouldn't have raised a finger to stop me."

"I might have had a momentary lapse in judgment, but I wouldn't have let you do whatever you wanted. I have standards and I know that I matter - bring more value to a relationship other than sex - and I don't just...fling it around for some guy willing to take a dip down the front side of my pants." From his expression, he doesn't believe a word I've said. "In my view," I say, seeing an opening, "you have it all backwards. You're the one who keeps trying to get in my pants. You're the one who keeps making sexual remarks and talking about attraction."

He shrugs. "I have a soft spot for feisty, attractive men."

"The way I see it, if anyone's going crazy here it's you."

"Is that so?" He takes a sip of his wine, considering.

"Yes." I point at him with my fork. "You're the one who won't drop the subject. It's driving you insane that I won't just give in to you." I lean forward, staring him down with my most seductive gaze.

His eyes flick down to my neck then back to my face, where they settle on my lips. When he speaks, his voice is casual, steady, but he doesn't fool me; a man knows when he has a man in his snare. "I might argue that last point, but you raise an interesting question," he says. "Who's more attracted? Who's more likely to crack first?"

"There's no question at all."

"Willing to wager on it?" he says, leaning toward me in turn. His eyes are bright.

"You can't prove something like that."

"Of course you can," he says. "The loser is the first one to give into their baser instincts."

If that's the bet, then I'm golden. Perhaps I don't have the strength to push him away when he's slipping kisses down my neck, but I'm not exactly the sort of guy who launches himself at men, even the sexy scruffy ones; I certainly wasn't lying about that part of my monologue even if he didn't believe the rest. I'm not sure Blaine has the same sort of restraint considering he's proven his inability to keep his hands to himself thus far.

"Fine, but I get to pick the stakes this time,"I say while licking my lips as I think about the ways in which Blaine can pay up if... no, when, he reneges on this bet. I'm pleased to see Blaine following the track of my tongue, noting how it's moistening the lips I'm sure he wished were around his cock instead of tasting the remnants of tonight's dinner.

This is my chance.

"If I win," I say, "then you have to pay out the rest of your father's pledge to the Center."

Blaine leans back in his seat and takes another sip of his drink. His eyes study me over the rim of his glass. "That's a steep price," he says casually.

"It's a dangerous game you've suggested. I think it's a suitable stake."

He considers for a moment. "There are three years left on the pledge, correct? The same amount promised each year?"

The fact that he doesn't know that for sure already makes me feel a little sick to my stomach, but I push down the feeling. "Four years," I reply.

He slides his thumb back and forth across his stubble. "I'll give you one year."

"I name the stakes this time, not you."

He shrugs. "We don't have to make the bet."

"You don't want to accept the terms because you know I'm going to win," I say lightly. "I think that proves my point quite nicely."

"Taunting me won't change my mind," he says. "Besides, we haven't even settled the debt from our last wager."

"Is that the problem?" I say. Before he can say anything else, I reach across and grab the front of his shirt. I yank him toward me, capturing his lips with my own. He's too shocked to move, but I'm not about to waste an opportunity to tease him. I move my mouth against his, then slip my tongue along his bottom lip. He responds more quickly than even I anticipated. His mouth opens beneath mine, his own lips part so he can meet my tongue with his own. Electricity courses through my body at the contact, and I lean into him, even as his hand circles my neck and draws me closer. Desire flares in my belly, but this time I won't ignore the warning bells in my head. I pull away from him, pulling his hand from my hair as I sit back in my seat. He looks stunned. I revel in the thrill of my small victory.

"Was that satisfactory?"

His eyes darken. "I would say that satisfies our terms."

"Good. Then we can move on to the terms at hand. All four years left on the pledge."

He shakes his head. "One."

I play with the end of my fork. "Pity. I thought you liked these little games. Or is it as I guessed, that you're afraid because you know you're going to lose?"

I have him under my finger now; I've challenged his pride and said he couldn't do it. If anything will motivate a man like Blaine, it's telling him he can't do something. If this doesn't work, then I don't know what I'll do since Blaine and his untold millions of dollars are lying between The Center's success and its sure ruin.

Blaine is studying me. I meet his dark gaze with equal intensity. Just try and wriggle your way out of this. Finally he leans forward again. "Two years."

I might not have broken him completely, but it's a good offer. Two years' fulfillment of the pledge would definitely keep our head above water—and give us that much more time to find a couple more dedicated givers. Now it's my turn to study Blaine, to try and gauge the seriousness of this offer. Should I try for one more year? In the end, I decide not to push it.

"Agreed," I say, holding out my hand. He shakes it. I should be excited. I finally have the chance to save the Center—and a good shot, too. But I don't trust Blaine's smile, nor do I trust the way my stomach flutters when he leans toward me again. He places his hand on mine, and my heartbeat accelerates.

"Let the games begin," he says.

Oh yes, I think. They're just getting started.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Despite the heat that seems to linger with every conversation with Blaine, dinner progresses without incident and without any sexual suggestions from Blaine or I. We talk about the small details about our loves; music we love, fashion we hate, celebrities we love to hate, movies we can't live without. I'm surprised to learn that Blaine and I have so much in common aside from our mutual desire to tear each other's clothes off, but I'm even more surprised to learn how well-spoken and intelligent Blaine is. Clearly he's not just a pretty face with some promising social connections. But I can only dwell on this for too long before I begin to question every lingering glance and touch that Blaine seems all to willing to dole out.

I can't help but feel pulled in too many directions with his haphazard emotions but obvious goal of doing anything to get in my pants. It seems like every part of his "game" involves luring me into his bed, but sometimes I can't help but feel slightly blindsided because he changes everything as the wind blows. Yet everything that passes between us is a move in this elaborate game of lust, and I'm afraid that while I'm planning my next turn, Blaine will sneak up behind me with some strategy I haven't even considered.

By the end of dinner, I'm too riled up from all of the strategy I've been considering and feel overwhelmed and under-rested in the wake of his emotional endurance. "Can you take me back to my room?" I ask coyly as I peek at Blaine. "I've been lost too many times to be willing to get lost one last time when I really just want to sleep."

"Of course," he says, sliding a finger along the back of my palm. The touch is both confusing and riveting and the silent tension I feel on the way back to the room is thick in the air. Though no words pass between us, the touches never seem to cease with a casual touch on my arm to the way he slightly pushes against my lower back when he holds a door open for me. I try to ignore it as best as I can - not wanting to give in to his game; nobody messes with a Hummel, especially not one as stubborn as me.

When we reach my room, I turn quickly and stand in a way that will surely captivate him; hips slightly jutting forward and rolling my neck back to highlight the spot he couldn't seem to get enough of in the gallery. "Thank you for walking me here. And thank Martin for another wonderful dinner. I quite enjoyed myself this evening."

"I hope you found my company stimulating."

"That's one word for it." I flash him my most devilish grin. For a moment we both stand there, each waiting for the other to speak or move. It's as if neither of us is willing to give in; give in to temptation, give in to leaving each other's presence, give in to admitting that something more might be at play here other than a simple game of cat and mouse with the ultimate prize laying beneath our well-fitted pants.

But we don't stand there too long before I can't help but give in a little. It's as if I can't help what my body is doing when it decides to reach out to finger along the hem of Blaine's collar, near the hollow of his throat. I can hear his breath quicken and I can feel my pulse racing beneath my fingers. As I near the line of his skin, he swallows. My fingers start to move along his neck, until suddenly I realize what I'm doing. They freeze just below his ear.

"Goodnight," I say sweetly, as if I intended this all along. "Pleasant dreams." I withdraw my hand and reach for the door, but I can still feel the intensity of Blaine's gaze on me.

"Goodnight," he says roughly.

I can't allow myself to turn around so I shut the door behind me, unwilling to see if I just slammed Blaine in the face. I've never been so attracted to a man before and it's terrifying.

* * *

I hardly sleep at all that night, thinking of Blaine; his hands, his mouth, his lips, his words - each one imprinting a tattoo of him on my brain that I'm unable to shake whether it be in sleep or consciousness. I don't know what has made me feel so... obsessed... but it only seems to be worse now that the bet is on the table. I thought I would have the resolve to resist him, but my mind seems to have a mind of its own and it isn't listening to the logic I'm trying to pull out from my core to stop myself from giving in to him. I feel like I'm burning from the inside out, tortured by lust for someone I shouldn't even like, let alone want. I tell myself it all comes down to that twisted law of the universe that you always want what you can't—or shouldn't—have. Blaine has the power to destroy everything Will has spent his life building and a cause I feel fully invested in supporting.

I've finally found an opening; a way to win back what he denied us, and my body's bent on betraying me. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I finally get up and go over to the fireplace. I'm tempted and move the poker to the side, opening the doorway to the passages that allowed me the initial glimpse to the man that I can't help but think about; beckoning me to call upon its dark corners again. I can feel my cock hardening at the prospect of what lies behind the walls of the secret passage.

The scene from the other night is still so vivid in my mind. I don't know what I hope to accomplish by taking this path again tonight. I don't delude myself into believing I'll witness another similar scene. And I certainly don't intend to go barging into his room in the middle of the night. It's all just a fantasy. All of my time in this house feels like an elaborate sexual dream, and I'm not sure whether I want to wake up or live in it forever.

I'm only a few steps into my lust-ridden journey before I lose my reserve. I turn around quickly and run back into the room and put the door back in its concealed state. This place is clearly getting the better of me, but I'll stick it out and will prevail. Tomorrow, I'll win back some of the money that he took from the center and I'll figure out how I can break him.

* * *

The next morning it's still raining, but this time the gray scene outside my window brings a rush of relief. I have more time to win back the money for the Center. I shoot Will a quick text to update him on the situation—I can't bear to hear his hopelessness over the phone, not when I need all my strength today—and I head into the extra closet to do some strategic dressing.

I end up selecting a pair of skinny pants again, since Blaine seems to respond well to those. These are white and fit quite well against my ass but allude to my package in front without being salacious. The white exudes purity while the fit suggests anything but.

Perfect.

He arrives at my room just as I'm slipping on a pair of shoes that I've stowed at the end of the bed, I'm slightly bent with my ass in the air as I tie the laces. I can hear him audibly groan before I turn around and see him with his eyes wide and lust obvious in his stare. "You like?" I tease.

"That doesn't even begin to cover it." He reaches out and touches my cheek at my hairline, letting the strands slide through his fingers.

I catch his hand. No one touches my hair; not even for the Center. "Are you going to stand there and drool, or are you going to take me downstairs?" I say. "I'm starving."

He pulls his hand away and clears his throat. "Of course, Mr. Hummel," he says, his voice like matching his honey eyes. His eyes linger on my exposed neck that's encased in the boat neck-style sweater I'd found.

_Easy, Mr. Anderson_, I think as I take his offered arm. I find this practice of his to be slightly antiquated and also somewhat demeaning since I am certainly no high society lady, but I can't really care - especially when it means that I'm in close proximity to him and can easily use this to my advantage. I place myself a little closer to his side as usual and I can feel his shirt's heat touching my arm as we walk down the hallway, can feel the muscles in his arm contract as I step even closer as we round a corner.

Our little dance only continues over breakfast. I'm driven by the same sense of wild recklessness that has possessed me all weekend, and I find myself toying with him: first a gentle touch on his wrist, then an "accidental" nudge from my foot beneath the table, then the intentional way that I suck the fruit Martin has prepared out of my fingers and lick the juices from my hand. Blaine certainly isn't going into this battle unarmed; he finds ways to send me lust-filled glances and sweet smiles with every touch and each one seems to be a sufficient counter to my moves. Damn him.

"Tell me," I say, trying to distract myself from the way his knee is brushing against mine beneath the table. His legs aren't nearly as long as mine, but that doesn't mean that he isn't figuring out how to drive me mad despite his shorter stature. "Any wild stories from all that time you spent in Europe?"

His eyes widen. "I'm not sure you want to hear any of those."

"No?" I brush my finger gently across his knuckles. "I bet you have some good dirt on some of those models you dated. What was that one with the pink hair? Elliott something?"

He catches my roving fingers and holds them tight. "Do you really want to start up a conversation about our past lovers?"

Lovers? Who even calls them that? What sort of weird romantic notions does this man adhere to? Well, not entirely romantic given the fact that no antiquated romance novel would willingly stick their hands down the front of a man's trousers. Still, thinking about Blaine and his perfect ex-boyfriends or fuck buddies or... whatever... is certainly one way to keep my wits about me. Just the thought of him buried in some other man's ass is enough to make me want to barf.

As if he sensed my discomfort, he clasps his hand over mine and his eyes beam with promise. "Besides, I don't want to talk about them when I have an incredibly gorgeous man right in front of me."

I shouldn't let his flattery get to me, but I find myself squirming in my seat at the compliment. "Well you must have done something else," I say. "In Europe, I mean. Besides...dating. And partying."

Blaine chuckles. "Despite the paparazzi's best efforts to paint me otherwise, I did in fact do more than take a more... leisurely path while in Europe; my father made sure of that." He lets go of my hand and relaxes in his chair. "He wanted me to be cultured; have an understanding of the world outside of what we know here in Manhattan and he wanted me to see art, theatre, writing, business and all that outside of what we see here. He wanted me to experience the masters of all things in person rather than just see them at an exhibit that passes through town. I'm fluent in five languages but I also served on the advisory board of many museums and universities while I was there, ensuring we had a contributing interest in all cultural endeavors."

"Wow," I say, genuinely impressed. "That must have been amazing."

He looks at me as if I just claimed the sky was green. "It was ridiculous, that's what it was." He runs his hand through his hair. "There I was, some entitled twenty-something who would've much rather been in a nightclub than debating the finer points of Manet and Monet with some stuffy old men. And yet my father had promised them some piece of his collection or a new wing or something, and suddenly I'm at the heart of all these important decisions. While I think it was a good thing to experience, I didn't savor it as other people who were truly passionate would have. Besides, I never wanted that responsibility, and honestly, they shouldn't have given it to me in the first place. No organization should rely on the whims of the wealthy. "

"That's a bit harsh," I say.

He shrugs. "It's the truth. I could've suggested we keep live giraffes in the lobby and they would have applauded my genius, all because they were afraid to lose my family's contributions. If I was more of an idiot I could have run these institutions into the ground all because they were afraid to stand up to my father or potentially lose money." I can only stare at him in shock. But he's not done yet. "That's the problem—desperation. These organizations are desperate for money, and they'll sacrifice their better sense to get it just because they feel the need to appease their donors. It's a ridiculous model. What happens when the money's not there? What happens if they say no to the giraffes? What happens if their rich donor suddenly decides he'd rather invest in ice cream or jet-packs than a worthy institution?"

"I don't know, Mr. Anderson," I say, my voice hard. "What happens?"

He looks up, suddenly aware of what he's said; what he's insinuated. "Kurt, I—"

"No." I drop my fork on my plate, no longer hungry. "Tell me, Mr. Anderson, since you seem to be an expert on such things. What happens to that organization that dares to rely on the goodwill of others?"

"I shouldn't have been so blunt, but I think I'm making a valid point here. People will, first and foremost, look out for their own interests. If they have money and goodwill to spare, then they might share it, but you can't rely on that generosity if you're trying to run a successful business. In this economy, you must be cutthroat, even if you are a not-for-profit institution."

"And you learned this how, exactly?" I say, rising. "During your time asking museums to put giraffes in their lobbies? Or was it from all those years you spent climbing the corporate ladder?"

"Kurt, if—"

"No," I say, fighting the urge to punch him. "Who the FUCK do you think you are to tell me - or anyone - how to run a nonprofit. You don't know what it's like to have to struggle to find money! You have loads of it! You could probably buy all of the giraffes from the Prospect Park Zoo and still have room for more animals!" He tenses, but I continue on my tirade. "The only reason Will is struggling and we're barely able to make an impact in the community that we love is because of you and somehow you're making it seem like it's my fault for wanting and relying on others for money. That's how nonprofits work! We have to rely on others knowing how valuable we are in our community and supporting our cause. Your father signed a contract; a contract that for some reason you like to think is not legally binding and what I'm willing to stick my neck out for to actually fight for."

Blaine tries to grab my arm, but I maneuver out of reach. "I can't believe that I thought, even for a minute, that you'd..." I shake my head, trying to ignore the feelings I'd accrued over the past few days and the notion that he was a decent human who would somehow understand how important our cause was and how earnest we were to continue to help others.

"Kurt please," Blaine tries, but I yank away from him once again.

"I'm done, Mr. Anderson, and don't worry - I won't impose on your generosity ever again." I storm out of the room - something that my high school self would have truly admired - breaking into a run as I reach the main hallway and to the front door. I don't bother checking behind me to see if he's following as I push through the front door, head out into the rain, push past the front gate, and get into my car.

Damn him. Damn him straight to hell. After everything he's put us through, who the hell gave him the right to lecture me about how to run the Brooklyn Center? Screw him. We don't need his money anyway. Adam's helping us now—maybe he can scare up an even bigger donor. Or maybe Will and I will find a way to revamp our classes without leaving our students to make up the difference in our funds. We'll make do without Blaine's help. We have to.

I seek respite my poor, beat up car that now has a parking ticket and yet is blocked in due to construction cones that have blockaded the street due to the large sinkhole near the river side of the street. It's then, only then, that I realize I've left my bag back in my room. My wallet, my phone, my keys... My car's still unlocked, thank God, which is the only thing that keeps me from having a complete and total breakdown in front of the Andersons' gate. I'm an idiot for leaving my car unlocked in the middle of Manhattan, but with the sinkhole at the end of the street and the fact that my car is a piece of shit, it seems no one had an interest in the contents of my jalopy.

I open the door and throw myself down on the backseat. I rub my cheek against the rough fabric of the cushion and force myself to take a couple of deep breaths. It's all my own fault, I know. I don't know how to keep my emotions at bay but I can't help but know that I was right to say what I said. But I shouldn't have run away, I should've just let him rant and focused on winning the bet and maybe not take such a forceful stance when opposing Blaine. Now I've let that final opportunity slip out of my fingers.

My physical reaction to him doesn't help anything. It only gets me worked up, and my efforts to fight down my attraction only make me more frustrated. I try to focus on the patter of rain against the roof of my car. He's a cheap, heartless bastard, I remind myself, but it doesn't make me feel any better.

At the end of the day, he has no respect for the work Will and I do. I repeat that thought in my head, over and over again, until eventually, mercifully, the sound of the rain sends me off to sleep.

* * *

I'm woken by a sharp rap against the window. My eyes fly open. I jerk upright, looking frantically around as I try to remember where I am. By the time the details of my current situation come back to me, Blaine has already opened the door, bringing a rush of cold and rain with him as he slides inside.

"Move over," he says. Still half asleep, I obey without a word. I push a strand of damp hair out of my face as he settles down beside me and pulls the door closed once more. He seems somewhat tall despite his actual size while standing and broader in the backseat of my tiny Honda, and his leg and hip are pressed against mine.

He's warm, even through our damp clothes. "I've been looking everywhere for you," he says, an edge to his voice.

Our argument comes rushing back to me, and my own annoyance flares up. "I told you I wasn't going to rely on your generosity anymore," I say. "This is clearly outside of your precious property so I won't infringe on your welcome wagon any longer."

"I didn't think you'd go running out in the storm!" As if to add weight to his words, thunder crashes overhead, making the car tremble.

"What was I supposed to do? Go sulk in my borrowed room in my borrowed clothes?"

"It wasn't my intention to kick you out."

"It doesn't matter now. What's done is done and we can both go on our merry ways."

"What's that supposed to mean? Do you intend to stay in your car?"

"For now, yes."

"Don't be ridiculous, Kurt. You don't have your keys. It's cold out here with the rain and wind. You don't know how much longer this storm will last not to mention the fact that the street is blocked due to that sinkhole. It might still be awhile before you can make it out of the street, let alone back to Brooklyn." There comes a point sometimes in arguments when you know you've lost. When your pride and your anger have backed you into a corner and a sensible person would throw up their hands and walk away. I'd like to think that I'm normally a sensible person, but the past few days have left me with a confusing jumble of emotions.

I panic. "I'll stay out here," I tell him. "I'm sure I'll survive somehow."

He makes an exasperated sound and runs his hand through his wet hair. "This is crazy."

"No. I think I'm being pretty reasonable, actually. Unless you feel like continuing our earlier argument, I think it's better if we stay apart."

"We can stay apart in the house."

"But I'd still be your guest. Believe me, I don't want to be out here, but I won't go back in that house. I refuse to owe you anything."

"I'm not going to let you sleep in your car, Kurt."

"If it weren't storming and if the roads weren't blocked, I'd be halfway home right now," I remind him. "We'd probably never speak again, and I don't think either of us would have a problem with that. Let's just make this easy."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I'm afraid he's going to keep arguing. But he only runs his hand through his hair again. "Fine," he says. "I won't drag you back." I wait for him to get out of the car, but he doesn't move. "One thing before I go," he says. His eyes move down my body. "I'm going to need those clothes."

I gape at him. "What? I'll ship them back to you, I promise."

"I'm afraid I can't take that risk. As you said, after you leave here we'll probably never see each other again."

"You have the contact information for the Center," I remind him. "You can find me there. Plus you have my bag back in the house."

He shakes his head. "You said yourself that you no longer want to owe me anything. I'm assuming that extends to my friend's generosity as well." Fuck. He's turned my own words against me.

"Fine," I say. "Get out of the car and I'll hand them out to you."

"So you can lock me out in the rain? I don't think so."

"If you're that concerned, the keys for this thing are back in the house with my bag." If I could get him to bring them out here, all the better, but he doesn't fall for it.

"I'm not leaving here without those clothes." He leans back in the seat and stretches his arms over his head, waiting. "You have two choices: give them to me, or come back to the house with me." He finishes with one of those smug little smiles of his. He thinks he's won the argument, that by insisting the return of the clothes he'll get me to go back inside.

He doesn't realize that I've already abandoned my sense in favor of my pride, and I'm willing to go down with this ship. I'm a proud, stubborn man and fuck Blaine Anderson if he thinks he's going to best me. I only have one weapon left to use against him. I reach behind me and slowly pull down the zipper of my pants; might as well go in for the kill early. His eyes widen when he realizes what I'm doing, but I don't stop. When I've finished unzipping, I slide the pants down my legs one by one, rolling the fabric down and exposing the white (and now slightly less opaque) boxer-briefs beneath. His gaze follows every moment of my hands, and his eyes linger on my cock, then my legs, before flicking back up to my eyes again. He wasn't expecting this, and in his surprise he lacks the composure to hide the hunger that burns in his eyes. I feel wanton, powerful, as I reach around my down once more and grab the hem of the boxer-briefs. I pull them off and shove it into Blaine's hands.

They nearly fall out of his grip, he's so focused on my newly exposed penis, but he manages to grab the underwear. Still, his eyes remain on me, burning with such an intensity that my entire body goes hot, despite the fact that I'm half-naked in the back of a car. I grab the fabric of my shirt at my waist and raise it over my head slowly. Blaine watches the fabric catch around my arm and then raises his eyes to mine once more. It's all I can do not to throw myself into his arms. I pass the shirt and pants over to him, but he hardly seems to notice.

Meanwhile, I'm hyper-aware of everything: the rough fabric of the seat against my bare skin, the cold air on my nipples, how my cock is hardening and unashamed despite being exposed in the middle of a somewhat abandoned Manhattan street aside from some emergency crews, the tiny hairs lifting on the back of my neck. I'm aware of the way Blaine smells, his natural, manly scent only enhanced by the damp in the air blending so perfectly with the scent of my cologne that permeates the car. I'm aware of each of his breaths, to the point that my own breathing begins to match its rhythm.

"Enjoying the show?" I say, my voice husky. Maybe all isn't lost. The universe seems to have taken pity on me after all—it's handed me the perfect chance to win my bet against Blaine. He gives a slow nod. His shoulders are tense, and for a moment I think he's about to lunge toward me and grab me to him. My heart careens madly at the thought, but as much as I want to, I know it's a terrible idea to just fall into his arms. In this moment, my restraint gives me the power—and I'm not about to give that up anytime soon.

"Here are the shoes," I say, grabbing the shoes from the floor and tossing them at him. "That's everything."

He looks down at the pile of clothing in his hands and then back at me. "You said it yourself," he says, his voice deep and rough. "When I leave this car, it's over. We'll probably never see each other again." He wants me to crack, to be the first one to give into the baser sensations running through my flesh.

But I know I'm stronger than he expects. "Probably not," I say casually.

Still he remains in the car, his eyes fixed on me. His grip on the clothes is so tight that his knuckles are white. I feel my own resistance start to crumble the longer we sit here, and I know he has to leave if I'm to get out of this with my pride—and my sanity—still intact.

"Well?" I say. "You've got the clothes. Shouldn't you head back to the house? Our business has concluded."

He frowns. "I guess I should."

I'm afraid for a brief moment that he'll stay anyway, but it appears that the intense moment between us has passed. Blaine opens the door and climbs out, leaving me alone in the car. And—oh yeah—completely naked. This isn't a high point of my life, that's for sure. No bag, no keys, no phone, no clothes. I'm not really sure what to do, but all of my options look pretty bleak, and most of them involve me going back to Blaine's mansion.

I reach over the back of the seat for the emergency car kit I keep in my trunk. There's a thin blanket inside, and I wrap it around my waist. On top of everything else, the nasty, rainy weather ensures my self-induced imprisonment will be freezing. But in spite of it all, I'd do everything again in a heartbeat.

It was completely worth it to watch Blaine's face, to see him, for once, flustered and overwhelmed. That little taste of power had an intense effect on me, and I'm surprised at how aroused I am. I feel intoxicated. I lie down again, the emergency blanket wrapped around me. I'm so high after my mini-victory that I tell myself it's all right to slide a finger down my body—down my chest, across my stomach, toward my cock that's still standing at attention from Blaine's gaze.

It's all right to imagine it's Blaine touching me instead. I can still feel his breath on my neck, his warm fingers grazing my skin. All the desire that's been building over the past couple days comes to the surface. My whole body reacts to the gentle caress of my fingers. Prickles dance across my skin as I imagine what might have happened between us had either Blaine or I been the tiniest bit weaker. Logic is thankful that we both resisted, but my body right now is yearning for the satisfaction that would have resulted if either of us had given in to our lust. What might have happened if I'd let my guard down—or if Blaine had learned that I spied on him the other night. My hand slips along and firmly grasps my cock, and I bite back a moan. And then I see the movement out of the corner of my eye. I jerk upright, clutching the blanket to my chest. Blaine stands outside the car, a bag in his hand. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes burning with such desire that I feel as if he can see right through my meager covering. He reaches for the door handle.

"What are you doing?" I squeak, scrambling back against the other door as the cold air rushes in around him. "You're supposed to be back at the house!"

"I was," he says, leaning through the open door. His voice is low and thick. "But I felt bad for leaving you, so I brought you your things."

"Fine. Leave them here, then." He shakes his head. He still stands halfway in and halfway out of the car. "You're not supposed to be here," I say desperately. "You're not supposed to watch someone when they... when they're..." I remember my actions in the secret passageway and my cheeks burn even more. This can't be happening. I want to run away again, but there's nowhere to go. Blaine takes no pity on my obvious distress; he clearly seems very fine with discussing - or watching - masturbation.

"Tell me you weren't thinking about me," he says.

"What?" I choke out. He can't be serious.

"Just now. Tell me you weren't thinking about me as you touched yourself, and I'll turn around and walk right back to the house."

I'm having difficulty breathing, but I force myself to look him in the eye. "And if I was?" I manage to breathe out.

His own eyes are half-closed as he watches me, and when he speaks, his voice is little more than a growl. "Then you're in trouble, Mr. Hummel." He dives into the car, slamming into me so hard that my head knocks back against the window behind me. But he either doesn't notice or doesn't care, and before I can even utter a sound of pain, his lips are on mine.

For the briefest moment, I consider pushing him away. But as desire flares between us, bright and powerful; I lose what little sense I have left. I grab the front of his shirt in my fist and pull him harder against me. His mouth moves against mine, rough and unyielding, while one of his hands slips around my neck. The other moves between us, yanking the emergency blanket from my grip and tossing it aside.

"Fuck, Kurt," he murmurs against my mouth. "Fuck, I want you." His hand moves across my chest, down my stomach, to my hip. He drags me toward him, holding me against the bulge in his pants, and all the while his lips are moving against my own. I meet his rough kisses with equal passion, slipping my tongue into his mouth to dance with his. He half-lifts me toward him, his hand moving over my bare ass. His fingers press against my flesh as they slide across the curve of my bottom and slip between my legs to the hole that's been trembling since I first lay eyes on him. I quiver at that intimate touch.

He tears his mouth away from mine. "Tell me," he rasps.

I'm just as breathless as he is. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me what you were thinking about when you touched yourself." His finger moves along the edge of my ass but no further. "What made you this hard? Made you clench like you are now."

Heat washes over my face. "I—I don't know."

"Tell me," he begs. He slides back, but only so he can bend his head to my neck. He trails kisses down the column of my throat. His other hand moves down my chest to my ass, squeezing and kneading as his hot tongue slides over my skin.

My fingers dig into his shoulders. "I was thinking of you," I whisper.

His teeth graze the skin at the hollow of my throat. "Tell me more."

"I was thinking of how you—" I gasp as he nips at the skin over my collarbone. "In the gallery, the way you..."

"The way I..."

No one's ever asked me to describe things like this to them before, and I have to struggle for the words. Normally masturbation is a very private thing, even if I hadn't held myself to that same standard for Blaine. "The way you touched me," I say awkwardly. "The way you—the way you played with my dick and teased me."

In response, he gives a firm squeeze to my ass before he rests his hand on my dick. "Like this?"

"Yes," I breathe.

His free hand moves to cradle my balls, repeating the motion. I moan and squirm, but he's relentless. Meanwhile, his head is moving lower, falling until I can feel his warm breath against my chest. His lips are rough on the sensitive skin, but I don't care. When he removes his fingers to close his mouth around one of my nipples, I whimper and grab him by the shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. He sucks and nibbles at my tender nub. Pleasure and pain sweep through me as one.

"What else?" he growls around his mouthful. I can hardly think straight anymore. All of my senses are heightened, and the throbbing of my cock increases with every ragged breath and with every light touch of Blaine's hands as he paws me. I was already close to finishing when he found me, and now I'm about to slip over the edge. I slide my hands up his neck to tangle them in his thick hair.

"What else?" he says again. This time he bites down on me, and my hands close into fists around his dark locks.

"The way you slipped your fingers around my cock," I say, my voice cracking. He moves his hand down my body, and before I can even shift in response, he tugs one hand on my cock while his other hand teases at my hole before finally pushing two in and all I can see is bliss personified. Pleasure shudders through me, and I cry out and yank at Blaine's hair as the world explodes around me. My cock spasms, and my hole clenches by the fingers he still moves around inside of me, lightly brushing my ass cheeks as he continues to thrust them in and out of me, no lubrication involved but I can't even feel the burn I'm sure will linger once I've come to my senses.

Wave after wave it comes, sweeping through me with an intensity that leaves me trembling in its wake. I lie there against the seat, weak and breathless, as Blaine moves his mouth to my ear once more.

"Those must have been some pretty vivid thoughts, to get you worked up like that," he murmurs. His fingers are still gripping my cock loosely, and he moves them slowly, sending aftershocks rippling through my flesh. "What else?" he whispers into my ear. "What else do you want me to do?"

I can hardly put together a coherent thought, let alone speak. My hands are still clenched around his hair, but the rest of my body is languid and warm. "Maybe," he rasps after a moment, "I should tell you what I want instead." He increases the speed of his hand once more, and already I can feel the tension building in me again despite the sensitivity.

"I've been thinking of you, too," he says. He slips his fingers from around my cock suddenly and reaches up, pulling one of my hands from his hair. His grip is slick, dripping with my own cum, but I don't pull away, even when he moves my hand down to the bulge in his pants. He's rock hard beneath the fabric, and his erection jumps at my touch. When he releases me, I keep my hand there, sliding it slowly down his length. He makes a sound deep in his throat. His entire body is rigid, his arms and shoulders so tense that I can feel them quivering beneath my touch.

"What do you want me to do?" I whisper, almost as if I don't know what I would possibly do with his dick in my hand. He doesn't say anything as I continue to rub him slowly through the fabric of his pants. Finally I reach up and tug at the hem of his damp shirt, thinking to pull it over his head, but his hand clamps around my wrist.

"My restraint only goes so far," he says. His eyes bore into mine. "I want you, Kurt. I want to fuck you until you can't move, until you can't think, until you've forgotten everything else but me. It won't be gentle. If you don't want that, then tell me, and I'll leave this car. But if I stay... I don't know how much longer I'll be able to control myself."

His words light a fire under my skin. I've never had anyone stare at me with such hunger, or speak to me with such passion. I know I should tell him to leave. I should throw on my clothes and grab my keys and drive away from this place without looking back. What happened to the love and romance and lingering touches I'd dreamt about when I was a teen? Would I really be okay with being subjected to Blaine's admittedly enticing sexual torture?

But my body is bent on betraying me. In this moment, I don't care about what's smart or right or logical. I don't care about what he's done to the Center. I know only that my body comes alive at his touch, that I'm drowning in such desire that I'm not even sure which way is up anymore.

I give Blaine a single nod.

"You're sure?" he rasps. I nod again, and this time he doesn't hesitate. He grabs me and yanks me against him, his mouth attacking mine. Heat surges between us as he pushes me down on the seat. I reach again for his shirt, and he helps me tug it up over his shoulders, exposing his perfectly muscled chest. My hands flutter to his stomach then slide up his torso, gliding over the ridges of his body. I could spend an hour inspecting every hard plane of his flesh, but Blaine isn't that patient. He pushes me back down, pinning me beneath his weight, and his lips crush against mine once more.

I moan and raise my tongue to meet his. My hands move to the waistband of his pants, reaching desperately for his fly. His own hand slips between us to help me, unfastening the button as I tug at the zipper. He slides his pants and boxer-briefs down in one motion, not bothering to push them past his knees. Neither of us care at this point. My body aches with need for him, and I can tell he feels it too. The long, hard length of him is wedged between us, the smooth skin hot against my lower abdomen.

He reaches down and grasps for his pocket. After a couple seconds of searching, he produces a condom and lube. "Always prepared, huh?" I ask breathlessly.

He smiles. "After everything that's happened between us, it seemed like a good idea to have this close." He tears the wrapper open with his teeth and slips the condom quickly over his impressive length. I hardly have any time to admire him before he grabs my legs and pulls them up, hooking my ankles over his shoulders. My bare toes brush against the ceiling of the car and I relish in how the skin of my legs looks against the muscles of his chest and arms.

He takes the lube and slathers it over his fingers and slowly pushes in where he once had been practically clawing at my opening. All I can do is sit back and take the immense bliss as Blaine shifts quickly from one finger to two and when three becomes a struggle, I am sweaty and fully hard for the umpteenth time tonight and all I can think about it how amazing Blaine's dick is going to feel inside of me.

When he's satisfied with my preparation, he lowers himself slowly, trapping my thighs between our bodies and positioning his cock between my legs. He only allows me the briefest of moments to relish the feeling of him against my opening. I take a ragged breath, and he plunges inside of me, ramming himself to the hilt in a single thrust. I cry out in pleasure and dig my nails into his back.

"Fuck," he breathes against my neck. "Fuck, you feel good." He turns his face and claims my mouth, slipping his tongue between my lips. I cling to him as my body throbs around his cock, adjusting to the sudden fullness. When he begins to move, I feel as if the world is crumbling away around us. He drives into me, slowly at first but quickly increasing in speed. Over and over and over again he buries himself, and he leans harder against the backs of my thighs with every thrust.

I can't move even if I wanted to. I can only submit to his body, to the demands of his mouth and his cock. I curl my fingers, pressing my nails further into his skin. He pauses only once, to grab my arms and yank them up, catching them by the wrists. He presses them down on the cushion on either side of my head, trapping them in his grip. It's cramped—one of my arms is bent against the seat, the other elbow rubs the back of the seat in front of us—but I don't care. I don't care about anything but the heat of his skin against mine, the fullness of him inside of me, how my cock is pressing against his abs with the muscles providing just enough texture to make the pleasure nearly unbearable, the joys of his body.

"Fuck, Kurt," he chokes out. I catch his mouth with mine and suck his bottom lip between my teeth. He curses against my mouth, but he moves faster, pounding into me with wild abandon. My head hits against the car door, but I don't care. The pain only adds to the intensity of this moment, and pleasure surges through my veins.

I thought my last climax was a big one, but it's nothing compared to the ecstasy that suddenly explodes through my flesh. I shake with the force of that violent wave, lost to everything but the pleasure coursing between us, wild as the storm outside.

Blaine curses again and gives a hard, deep thrust. His body goes rigid on top of mine, and then he shudders as release pours through him as well. After a moment he leans back and slides my legs off of his shoulders, and then he lowers himself gently on top of me.

I can feel the galloping of his heart against my own, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. It's too easy, like this, to forget how much I hate him. To forget that I'm supposed to be in control of myself and my emotions and this situation. To forget why I came here, and why I stormed out to the car in the first place. But I don't care. I don't care about anything but the warmth of his breath against my ear and the softness of his skin against my own.

Here, right now, that's enough.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

A little while later, when my body starts to cool down, I realize my feet are getting wet. Blaine never bothered to close the car door, and now our tangled legs and feet are dangling out in the rain. But I have a hard time rousing myself - partially due to the fact that I was fucked within an inch of my life and partially because his weight and warmth are soothing somehow. I just want to lie here with Blaine's weight on me and his lips against my neck. In here, it's easy to ignore the problems of the outside world.

It's Blaine who decides to make the first move to leave the backseat of my car. "Well, that was something," he says, voice still ragged from the thorough exercise we both took part in. His eyes roam over my face, as if taking in the moment. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" His own lips are swollen from my teeth, and I'm filled with a wicked sense satisfaction at the lingering evidence of our wild coupling. I can only imagine how his back must look. I don't have long nails, but given the force of his thrusts and my reckless abandon in the sack, I bet his back looks like a scratching post.

"Only if you count the good kind of pain," I whisper.

The corner of his mouth curls up, and he sweeps a strand of sweat-soaked hair away from my forehead before leaning down and brushing his lips against mine. Now that we're no longer in the throes of passion, I notice the faint metallic taste of blood in his kiss. He notices it, too, for he pulls away and touches his bottom lip gingerly.

"A bit of a biter, aren't we?" he says. My cheeks go hot, but this time I don't turn away from his gaze. I'm not ashamed of myself for getting a little rough; I'm not a blushing virgin even though I'm slightly surprising myself at how sexually open I've been with him. And he certainly doesn't seem to mind my forwardness. He reaches out and rubs his thumb along my neck. "Ready to go again?"

"What?" My body is already responding to the suggestion, but I'm not sure it can handle another round like that without exploding into a million pieces. I've already had two orgasms tonight and though the prospect of a third sounds amazing, I don't know if I can

My thoughts must register on my face because Blaine lets out a laugh. "I'm joking," he says, leaning down and brushing his nose against mine. "But perhaps we can continue this later. Maybe somewhere with a little more room."

I'm still too drunk on our passion to do anything but smile and nod.

We climb awkwardly out of the car. The cold rain is a shock against my heated skin, but for a moment I close my eyes and lean my head back, just letting it wash over me. It makes me feel like a normal person again, not just some sex-high wild man.

After a moment I open my eyes and look back at Blaine, who's reaching back into the car for our clothes. Even in the gray, overcast light, the red marks stand out starkly against his bare back. I gasp.

"What is it?" he says.

"Your back," I say. "I didn't mean to—I mean, you said I didn't hurt you."

He reaches around, and his fingers brush against the raised gouges across his spine, slashes made by my nails. He laughs.

"Wild little minx," he says, stepping forward and catching me up in his arms. He leans down and captures my mouth with his. I melt against him, relishing the sensation of his own fingers digging into the flesh along my hips. His lips are fierce, hungry, and he gives my bottom one a nip before releasing me once more.

"We should probably get inside," he says. "You have goosebumps." I almost tell him the truth—that those goosebumps are from his touch, not the cold—but the sound of my ringtone cuts me off.

"Here." Blaine reaches into the bag he brought of my things and grabs the phone. His eyes flick down at the screen as he hands it to me. "Ah. Apparently you're not supposed to answer."

I hear the question in his voice, even as my own hand freezes on the cell. I don't even have to look down at the screen. There's only one person in my phone labeled "Do Not Answer." I don't know why Adam's calling again, but I'm really not in the mood to deal with him right now. I told him to call the Center. If he has any questions or updates, he can talk to Will.

I reach into the bag for my clothes and find his friend's pants next on top of my muddy, wrinkled things. I glance up again to find Blaine, meaning to ask him about it, but he's staring at me with an intense expression. "It's nothing," I say, trying to dispel his concern. "No one important."

"Is this guy bothering you or something?" Blaine says.

I shrug. "It's not really any of your business."

"I would think it's at least partially my business, considering what just happened between us."

The last thing I want to do is talk to Blaine about Adam. "I don't delude myself into thinking what just happened between us was anything more than sex. I'm not obligated to tell you about any other men in my life, just as I don't expect you to tell me about your other men." I do have some pride, after all.

"This isn't about our romantic history," Blaine objects. "If someone's listed as 'Dipshit Do Not Answer' on your phone, I don't think I'm overreaching to think his call might be unwelcome."

"I can handle it, I promise," I say. "I'm a big boy."

"How often does he call you?"

"I can handle it," I snap. I yank the pants over my ass and zip the fly harshly, ensuring that my overly sensitive dick isn't in the way of the rage I feel with this whole conversation. I can't believe I'm having this argument with him. Why does he care who calls me? For now, at least, he seems content to drop the issue. Neither of us speak as we pull on the rest of our clothes. The fuzzy, post-coital glow is gone, and now I'm only cold, wet, and annoyed. I reach to find the shirt but can't get it untangled from the mess of clothes in the bag.

"Here," Blaine says. Before I can object, he steps behind me and pulls the shirt out of the bag gently. His hand lingers at the base of my neck after he helps me into the shirt. "I wasn't trying to push you," he says, so softly that I can barely hear him over the rain. "I was just worried, that's all."

I turn and glance up at him over my shoulder. "I don't need you to protect me."

"We all need people to protect us sometimes."

"And sometimes," I say, stepping out of his grip, "we need the freedom to fight our own battles."

He doesn't say anything as I bend and grab the rest of my bag off the ground. I wonder if he thinks I'm going to climb back in the car. To be honest, I'm tempted. I don't want to admit defeat, even now. But this time the sensible side of me wins out. "Let's go," I say, moving back toward the gate. "Unless you want to stay out here in this weather all day."

It's not until we're inside, dripping in the foyer, that I raise the issue of the bet. "Looks like you'll be fulfilling your father's pledge to the Center after all," I say.

He freezes, frowns. "What?"

"Our bet," I say, surprised I have to remind him. "You lost."

He shakes his head. "I'm afraid you lost, Mr. Hummel."

"You were the one who dove into the car and grabbed me," I say, reaching up to rub the back of my head. "I still have the bump from where I hit the window. You made the first move."

"That wasn't our bet." He steps toward me, dripping water all over his fancy silk carpet. "Our bet was who would be the first one to give into their baser instincts."

"Same thing."

"Not at all." He's only a few steps from me now. "You," he says softly, his breath caressing my cheek, "You were touching yourself."

"That wasn't part of our bet."

"It fulfills the conditions. You admitted that you were thinking of me."

I jerk back from him. "That's not what we meant by the bet, and you know it."

"Perhaps that's not what you understood it to mean, but it's what the terms dictate."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "You're not going to trick me into letting you win. You grabbed me. You kissed me. You told me you couldn't control yourself."

"If we're arguing that detail," he says, closing the distance between us again, "then you were the one who gave me complete permission to lose control."

"This is ridiculous. You just don't want to admit you've lost."

"Should we consult a third party? I can call my lawyer if you want. He has experience dealing in matters like this."

I roll my eyes. This is getting absurd. "You owe the Center two years of the pledge money your father promised," I say.

"You won't get it." I'm going to punch him. I'm actually going to punch him this time. He'll probably sue me or something, but it'll be worth it. What else do I have to lose at this point? Blaine must read the violence on my face because he takes a step back. "I'm sorry, I truly am," he says. "I told you that I always keep my word, but I'm not in a position to throw away huge chunks of money just because someone misunderstood something I said."

From where I'm standing, he's most definitely in a position where he can—and does—throw huge chunks of money at any number of things, but I can see this line of argument is going nowhere. "Fine," I say. "Then why don't we make another bet? Double or nothing."

His eyes flash. He's intrigued. "What did you have in mind?" he says. Honestly, I don't know. But I'm not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers. I glance around, desperate for ideas, but I can't even begin to think of the options in a house like this. Should I challenge him to another splash fight on the roof? Suggest a round of pool or darts in the game room?

Something he mentioned in passing during our tour pops into my mind. "You said you used to play hide and seek with your friends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting we bet on a game of hide and seek?" In reality I have no idea what I'm suggesting. But Blaine seems excited by the idea, so I decide to push it a little further.

"Perhaps," I say, making a show of glancing around. "It's fitting for a stormy day like today."

"Am I to be the one to hide or seek in this scenario of yours?" he says, drawing near me again. I don't know what to say. He has the advantage either way. On the one hand, if he hid, then I— What the hell am I thinking? How old am I—six?

"Forget it," I say, shaking my head. "It's a stupid idea."

He moves toward me, and suddenly the wall's at my back. Blaine leans over me. "It's not stupid at all. In fact, I like the idea very, very much."

"That's just because you know all the good hiding spots," I say lightly, trying to make a joke of it. I don't trust the way my heart is beating. I don't trust myself when he's so close.

He chuckles and props a hand on the wall beside my head, closing me in. "We can bend the rules easily enough," he says. "Make it a little more even for you."

I look up at him through my lashes. "And how, exactly, do you suggest we do that?"

His eyes darken as they hold my own. "I'll give you a massive head start," he says with a wicked smile.

"That's not an advantage. That should be a standard rule in a house this size. It probably takes half an hour to walk from one side to the other." I frown up at him. "And who's to say that I'll be the one hiding?"

"As you pointed out, I know all the good spots already," he says. "Besides, I rather like the idea of chasing you down. It's very... primal, isn't it?" The way he says that sends a shiver down my spine.

"You still have the advantage," I say. He considers this for a moment, and I can't help but notice the way his pulse beats in his throat. He's thrilled by our little game, and the knowledge of this sends an echoing response through my own body.

"How about this," he says. "I'll give you a ten minute head start. After that, we'll set a definitive time limit—say, an hour. You said yourself that it will probably take thirty minutes to walk from one side of this place to the other. I may have a more thorough knowledge of this house than you do, but I certainly can't search every room in an hour. That should make things even." It's a start, at least.

"Who will keep the time?" I ask.

"We'll set the alarms on our phones." He whips his phone out of his pocket and pulls up the clock function. I fish my own cell out of my bag of muddy clothes and follow his lead. But when I look at him again, he's frowning.

"I didn't realize what time it was," he says. He glances up. "I'm sorry, Kurt, but I have to make a few calls."

"Oh. Okay." I tell myself the little dip in my stomach isn't disappointment.

He raises his hand to my cheek. "After that," he says, brushing his thumb across my lips, "then you bet your sweet little ass that I mean to hunt you down and claim my prize."

"Your prize?"

"We did say double or nothing," he says, a dark gleam in his eye. "I think it's only fair with stakes this high that I get something for catching you."

I'm almost afraid to ask the question. "What do you want?"

He leans toward me, and for a breathless moment I think he's going to kiss me, but he stops just shy of my lips. "If I win," he murmurs, "then you're mine. All night."

My heart stutters in my chest. "Yours?"

"At my mercy," he breathes. He runs a single finger down my neck.

"Should I be afraid?" I ask him.

An eager smile stretches across his lips. "Very." Before I can respond, he steps away from me. "Meet me back here in two hours," he says. "I'll have Martin send some lunch up to you." I can only nod as he walks away.

* * *

At the designated time, I return to the foyer. I wish I could say I spent our hour apart doing something productive, but all I managed to do was change into dry clothes—jeans and a tank top, which seem a little more practical for hide and seek than a tight pair of white pants—and fret about our impending game.

Even now, I'm not sure I should have agreed to this. There's still time to back out, to run back to my room and lock the door and end this madness before it begins. But refusing to play means giving up on the Center—or so I tell myself. I stand against the wall as I wait.

Blaine is late. I wonder a little about the business that took him away so urgently, but maybe it's better that I don't know. I suspect anything I learn about the way he handles his affairs will only make me angry, and right now I want to forget how much I hate him.

I glance down at my phone. It's ten minutes past the time we were supposed to meet. What if he changed his mind? What if he decided this was a stupid idea after all?

The message icon is flashing in the corner of my phone's screen. Adam called again about an hour ago, and this time he left a voicemail. I considered calling him and reminding him to consult Will with any questions or concerns, but I'm afraid that even that much of a response will only encourage him. I knew I was opening a big fat can of worms when I dialed his number, but I won't fall into the trap of allowing open communication between us again.

"Is something wrong?"

I nearly drop my phone at the sound of Blaine's voice. He's managed to sneak up on me while I'm standing here fretting about Adam. "I'm fine," I say, smiling up at him. No need to bother him over my crazy ex. "But you're late."

"A terrible crime." He takes my hand and brings it up to his lips. "Tell me, how do you plan on punishing me?"

I disentangle myself before he gets me too worked up. I have a game to win. "We can worry about punishment later," I say. "Right now, we have more important business."

His eyes darken. "Indeed."

I look down at my phone. "We should go ahead and set our alarms for an hour from now."

He pulls out his own cell and follows suit. "Set another for ten minutes from now," he says. "So you'll know when your head start is up."

"Just to be clear," I say, determined to avoid any miscommunication this time around, "the game is over when the final alarm goes off, or when you catch me. Whichever happens first."

He nods. "Correct."

"I think we should define what constitutes a capture," I say. "It's not enough to spot me across a room or a hallway right before the alarm goes off."

He smiles. "You mean that I'm required to have you in my possession." The way he says that final word sends a tiny thrill through me.

"You at least have to touch me," I say.

"I'll touch you any way you like," he says, a gleam of amusement in his eye. "But yes, I think it's a fair rule."

I nod. That's settled, at least. "Anything else we should go over?" I ask. "Anywhere in the house that's off limits?"

"I know better than to answer that," he says, "or you'll head straight there." He glances down at his phone, then back at me. "And I'm willing to discuss whatever else you want, but I think it's only fair to point out that your ten minutes are ticking away very quickly."

Shit.

I twist away from him, but not before catching the devilish anticipation that sweeps across his face. The asshole thinks he's won already. I run to the nearest door. I have no idea where it leads, but there isn't time to stop and consider. This is my final shot to win back our money. I need to win.

"Don't worry," he calls after me. "You'll enjoy the night I have planned for you." That's exactly what I'm afraid of. I have seven minutes left and absolutely no plan.

This house is huge, and Blaine's tour did little more than make it clear that it would take me a year to learn my way around this place. I have no idea where I'm going, let alone where I might find a suitable place to hide. All the same, something surges through me as I run down the hallway. In spite of everything—and even though it's completely crazy—I think I'm as excited as Blaine by our little game. More than excited —enthralled. Maybe I should let him catch me. The promise of his words still echoes through my mind. If I wanted, I could be at his mercy all night. The prospect tempts me more than I want to admit.

But reality hits me quick and hard: I can't allow myself to be caught up in this. There's too much at stake. The Center's entire future falls on the outcome of this "little" game, and I'm not going to let my own weakness destroy the thing Will worked so hard to build. Blaine is sexy, yes, and our encounter in the car was probably the best sex I've had in my life, but this is only lust. Lust and self-indulgence.

I run up a flight of stairs. My only strategy right now is to get as far away from Blaine and the foyer as possible. The further I run, the longer it will take him to get to me, and in this game every minute counts. Maybe it's better if I don't hide at all, but continually change my location—after all, a moving target is much harder to hit. My cell buzzes in my pocket. Is my head start up already?

I turn down another hallway and run all the way to the end. Blaine will be leaving the foyer now. At the very least I need to find somewhere out of the main thoroughfare where I might bide my time. It won't do me any good to go noisily sprinting down the corridors. Without even thinking, I find myself heading in the relatively familiar direction of my bedroom.

It's not until I'm outside the door, however, that the thought hits me: I should sneak into the secret passage. It's perfect—I can wait behind the walls and possibly even spy on Blaine's progress in the meantime. I dash over to the fireplace and grab the poker. The panel swings open, and I quickly duck into the passage, pulling the door closed behind me. I yank my phone from my pocket and use the dim glow from the screen to light my way as I move through the dark.

I'm supposed to be concentrating on my goal, thinking of the Center and the money I'll win back for us, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the last time I was here. Just the memory of my naughty spying session sends blood rushing to my face. I'm glad there's no one here to see me. I recognize the way the passage curves just before Blaine's room, and I stop and lean against the wall. This is as good a place as any to hole up for a while.

I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. It's been six minutes since the first alarm went off. Fifty-four minutes to go.

I sit down and lean my head back against the wall. The floor is cold and hard, but all in all I can think of a dozen less comfortable places to spend the next hour. At least I'm not twisted and cramped in a cabinet somewhere or something.

I can do this. I can win back the money for the Center. In the long run, it doesn't matter that I had sex with Blaine—I can make up for the craziness of the last two days in the next hour. I close my eyes and take a deep breath and wait.

Seventeen minutes later, I hear footsteps. My head jerks up, but even then I have trouble placing their location. Are they coming from above me? On the other side of this wall? The sound bounces around the passage, and only one thing is clear: wherever they are, they're getting closer. I draw my knees up to my chest and wait, rigid. My mind is racing. Should I stay here like this? Or should I try to spot him through the spy holes along the walls?

If I move, there's a chance he'll hear me, but it would give me an advantage to see and know exactly where he is. In the end, he makes my decision for me. Just when I'm about to make a move for the spy holes, my ears finally pick up on where he is, and it's no wonder it took me so long to place him.

He's in the passageway with me. Shit! How did he find me so fast? Did he slip a tracking device on me or something? But no, I realize too late that he probably had the same idea I did. He wanted the secret vantage points these passageways offered. I'm an idiot for underestimating him in his own house.

He's too close now. There's no time to run. If he hears my footsteps he'll chase after me, and he proved back on the first night when he tackled me outside that he can outrun me. No, my only chance is to remain hidden and hope he walks right by. I move slowly to my feet. Farther down the passage I see the soft blue light of his phone bouncing off the darkness. I sidle along the wall, feeling behind me for any nook or cranny where I might duck out of sight.

After a few desperate moments I find a little alcove, and I manage to squeeze inside just as Blaine comes around the curve in the passage. I hold my breath as he strides toward me. He holds his cell phone out to light the way for his feet, and the light moves over the spot where I was sitting just a moment ago. At least I made the right decision in moving.

He stops next to the spy holes that look onto his bedroom. In the dim light, I can just make out his face. The way the shadows play across his jaw and cheekbones only enhance the intensity radiating from his eyes. There's no doubt he means to find me—and have his way with me. A shiver races down my back.

I watch him lean forward and peer through the slits in the wall. Arrogant asshole. Does he really think I'd be dumb enough to hide in his bedroom? I want to laugh, and I bite down on my lip to stifle the urge. He turns back around, and I press myself as much against the wall as I can. For a moment I'm sure he's seen me—but then the blue light passes over my hiding spot and moves further down the passage, and Blaine's footsteps recede as he continues on his way.

As soon as the light disappears, I release the breath I've been holding. That was close. Too close.

My heart is thumping madly in my ears. I curl my hands into fists and press them against my thighs. I should be nervous after coming so close to losing, but my body has a different reaction. Once more, I have to fight down the urge to laugh—Blaine doesn't even have to touch me or look at me and he still manages to turn me on. But I can't risk another close encounter like that. Especially if I'm getting aroused by the thought of him catching me.

If he's using the system of passageways, then I need to get out of here. I don't know where they lead or how far they extend, but there's no guarantee he won't come back this way. Better to move away from him. I start down the hallway in the opposite direction of Blaine, back toward my room. I try to move as quietly and as swiftly as possible. If I could hear his footsteps long before he reached me, then my movements will echo as well.

There's only one problem: I can't remember where my room is. The last time I used the passage, I left the door open behind me. This time, I shut the door, and now I don't know how to find it again. I stumble along, peering through every set of spy holes I manage to spot in the darkness, but I don't know the house well enough to get my bearings from the rooms I see on the other side. At regular intervals I spot the palely painted door handles, but I'm not reckless enough to open any of them without knowing where they lead—or where Blaine is.

I keep walking. Right now my priority is to get as far away from Blaine as possible, but I keep my head up and my eyes on the walls, looking for the next door or set of spy holes. I'm so focused on finding my escape route that I nearly trip down the flight of stairs that suddenly appears in front of me. I gasp and reach out for the wall, and I manage to catch myself on a railing before I fall and break my neck.

My phone clatters to the ground and tumbles down several steps. The sound echoes down the length of the passageway. I stand frozen for a long, breathless minute. Was Blaine still in the passage? Did he hear that? I strain my ears, but I don't hear any approaching footsteps. Still, I have a bad feeling in my gut.

I need to get out of here—and fast. I hurry down the next few steps and crouch, fumbling around in the darkness for my phone. As soon as I find it, I take off down the stairs, moving as quickly as I can without risking another fall. The stairs go on much longer than I expect, far more than a flight, but at this point there's nowhere else to go but down. How deep does this place go? I wonder.

It's not until the steps finally stop—and I notice the sudden coolness—that I remember Blaine's earlier comments about the dungeons. I assumed at the time he was joking, but now that I'm here, I'm not so sure. The glow from my cell phone reveals the edges of a door ahead of me. I take a deep breath and push it open. The hallway on the other side is as dark as the passageway—far darker than most of the rooms and corridors upstairs, where the windows let in light even on rainy days like today. I edge my way along the closest wall, a hand out for support, and my fingers brush against stone.

Looks like he definitely wasn't kidding about that dungeon bit. I don't know what I'll find down here, but there's no way I'm giving up the chance to explore a little. What do eccentric billionaires keep in their sub-basements? Vaults of jewels? Stashes of the latest designer drugs? Dead bodies of people who defied them? My hand brushes against a door, and I fumble for the handle in the dark.

It's locked. About ten steps later, I find another door, but this one's locked, too. And then another, and another—this entire basement is stone walls and locked doors.

I'm screwed if Blaine catches me down here. There's nowhere to hide.

My body is tense, my skin alive with nerves. The thought that Blaine is somewhere above me, hunting me down, incites a feral excitement in me. If he catches me down here, what will he do? My heart almost leaps out of my chest when I find the next door unlocked. I slowly push it open then raise my cell phone to try and light the darkness beyond.

There's nothing here. No storage boxes, no cases of jewels, no dead bodies. I wander around the room, inspecting every corner, but I'm in an empty stone cube. A small one, at that. It really does feel like a dungeon cell—all that's missing are a few chains on the walls. I turn my cell phone's screen off and sit down in one of the corners, trying to catch my breath.

I'm not sure why this place flusters me so much, but I'm already too far gone to fight the fluttering in my stomach. There's no point in denying that a part of me wants him to catch me, but I won't willingly lose this contest. After the time is up, however, then all bets are off. I glance down at the time on my phone. Twenty-eight minutes left. Halfway done. I can do this. The minutes tick by slowly, all the more because I can't see anything around me. I can only focus on the excitement running beneath my skin.

When I close my eyes, I can only imagine the things Blaine has planned for me upon my capture. I should feel bad for indulging my imagination, but I don't. I'm not ashamed of the fantasies playing in my mind, nor am I ashamed of the anticipation coursing through me. I feel alive and wild and free. I feel like this place, this mansion, is entirely removed from my old reality. My normal life and all its stress and responsibilities are far away. In here I can be reckless. In here I can be shameless and unrestrained. In here I can explore every dark, wicked corner of myself.

When I finally grow impatient and look down at my phone again, there are only seven minutes left. I draw my knees up to my chest and rock gently. I don't want to admit it, but I'm a little disappointed Blaine hasn't come for me yet. After our close encounter in the passageway upstairs, I thought I'd spend the entire game on my toes, just steps ahead of him, breathlessly out of reach. Just when I'm about to resign myself to the letdown, I hear a sound out in the hallway. I hold my breath. For a moment, I hear nothing but silence.

I'm beginning to think I might have imagined the noise when suddenly it comes again. There, down the hall—is that the sound of a door closing? Has Blaine stumbled down here at last? For a solid minute I don't hear anything more, and then there's a footstep, light but distinct. Yes, there's no denying it—someone's walking down the hallway. Toward the room where I wait.

I press myself further against the wall and flip my cell phone open for one last look. Three minutes until the alarm goes off. Three minutes, and I'll have the money the Center needs to survive. I hear the jiggle of a door handle. Not mine, no—three doors down, maybe four. This level is so quiet that I can practically hear my heart pumping.

Outside my cell, Blaine moves a few more steps and tries the next door. I shouldn't have chosen the first room I found unlocked, I realize suddenly. He'll move on from the locked doors quickly, but he'll stop and search this room, and there's nowhere in here I can hide. I'm tempted to pull out my phone and check the time again, but it's too risky. Instead I remain curled up on the floor, afraid to move, and I wait. Blaine tries the handle of the room next to mine. One jiggle, two.

And then his footsteps approach my door. I'm lightheaded. There can't be more than two minutes left. If I can escape him for just two minutes... The handle of my cell turns, and the door opens with a click that seems to echo throughout the room.

I stay perfectly still. A single breath or the tiniest shift of my foot might alert him to my presence. He steps into the room. He moves slowly, as if he's unaware that his time is about to expire. Or maybe he does know—maybe he already knows I'm in here, and it's all part of his game.

Every nerve on my body is afire. My muscles tighten, urging me to jump, move, run—but I can't. I won't. I ignore the knots twisting in my belly, the desire growing between my legs, and I wait, frozen, for the end. Blaine's footsteps move forward, toward the far wall. He pauses only briefly when he reaches the corner adjacent to mine.

He's no more than twelve feet away from me now. How much time is left? It can't be more than a minute. His steps turn, and now he's moving along the wall. I can hear his fingers graze against the stone. His steps are slow, deliberate. He's only ten feet away from me now.

I should run. Or better yet, crawl. Maybe I can stay beneath his arms. If he doesn't touch me, then he doesn't win. Even if my shoe squeaks against the stone, I might be able to evade his hands in the darkness.

It's risky, and I'm too close to winning. There can't be more than thirty seconds left. But Blaine can't be more than five or six steps away. I lift myself off the ground, only just enough to slide myself a couple feet to the left. Blaine doesn't break his step. He doesn't appear to notice my presence at all.

I shift another couple of feet. Why haven't our phone alarms gone off yet? How much time is left? Blaine has reached the corner where I was hiding just a moment ago. If he could see through the darkness, he could grab me easily. Are there ten seconds left? Twenty?

I'm so close. Just a little longer...

My phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. Relief sweeps over me, but dread follows just a quickly. It's not my alarm going off—it's my normal ring tone.

Someone's calling me.

Blaine reacts before I have time to recover from the shock. He dives toward me, and his hands grab me in the dark. "Caught you," he says, his fingers digging into my skin. Then, only then, do our respective alarms go off in unison. It's not right. I was so close—so close.

To lose like this, with only second left—to lose because my phone went off... no.

No. I won't go down like this.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

"You can't—" I start, trying to defend myself against his win, but Blaine pulls me from the ground. He's silent as he forces me against the wall. I try to push back and argue, but he pushes his fingers against my lips to silence me.

As I reach up to grab his shirt, I end up pulling him closer rather than pushing him away like I had originally intended. I want to deny the fact that he bested me, but I realize I don't have it in me to refuse him and his wicked plan.

It's so dark in the dungeon that I'm blinded by its blackness, but my other senses seem to be overly sensitive. The breath that sweeps across my face tickles my skin with delight and pulsing hunger. He brushes his cheek against mine and the granular feeling of his stubble makes me gasp aloud as the light scratching only further sets my skin on fire. The sound of his breath against my ear as he takes the lobe into his mouth makes me shudder and moan with pleasure. Pleasure surges through my body, and I start to whimper against his fingers, but he tightens his grip on my mouth and pushes me harder against the wall.

His free hand slips beneath my shirt and glides across my stomach, up toward my chest. His touch sends waves of heat across my skin, my core throbs in anticipation. His fingers slide beneath the bottom edge of my shirt, bringing my chest into contact with the cool air. I moan, but once more he tightens his hand across my lips, this time so much it hurts.

I'm so flustered that it takes me a moment to wrestle it over my head, and before I can throw it aside, Blaine grabs it from my hand.

"What are—"

He cuts me off by shoving the shirt in my mouth. I nearly choke on the fabric, shocked by the force of the movement, but I don't fight him.

_He wants me to be silent_, I realize. Here we are, with no speech and no sight—we're like two strangers coming together in the darkness.

That realization excites me more than I want to admit.

I clamp my teeth down on the makeshift gag and reach around him, slipping my hands beneath the back of his shirt. I trail my nails across his skin as I move upward, hoping to remind him of our earlier encounter, and I'm rewarded when a tremor passes beneath my touch.

And then suddenly he grabs me by the elbows and yanks my hands away from him. He captures both my wrists in one hand, and before I can twist away from him I hear the telltale metallic clink of his belt buckle. I playfully struggle, but his grip on me is firm. When he manages to free his belt, he brings it up and wraps it around my wrists, so tightly that the leather edges are digging into my skin. Then he jerks my bound hands upward, pinning them to the wall above my head.

I writhe against him, and he responds by grinding against me, hard. The button of his fly digs into my stomach with the way that I'm leaning back so he feels taller than me, and his arousal presses against my leg, mere millimeters away from touching my growing length. He moves only enough to allow his free hand to slip between us and undo the button on my own pants. He undoes my zipper in one swift motion, and then he jerks my jeans down over my hips and pushes them toward the floor.

His leg forces my knees apart and my cock lightly grazes a patch of his skin, and I step out of my pants as I obey his silent command. I strain against his hands, wanting to grab him and feel his hot skin beneath my fingers, but he won't let me move.

Only when I stop wriggling does he release the hand on my waist. He grinds against me once more before leaning back just enough to reach for his own pants. There's a slight crackle as he pulls something from his pocket—a condom, I'm guessing—and then the rustle of fabric as he wrestles his way out of his pants. When he presses against me again, I can feel the smooth hard length of him against my own heated skin.

I want to kiss him, but my lips are frozen around the gag. He doesn't seem particularly inconvenienced by this. His own mouth moves past mine, brushing against my cheek on his way to my ear. He buries his nose in my hair and pulls my earlobe once more between his lips. I twist beneath his grasp. His grip on my wrists tightens as he shifts again, and even though it's painful, I find myself fighting back a cry of pleasure.

I don't know how much longer I can bear this. I buck my hips, urging him to meet me, and quickly, but he responds by pushing me forcibly back against the wall. The message is clear: he's in charge here. That was the prize, wasn't it? I'm truly at his mercy.

Maybe I should be ashamed at the reaction that realization sends through me, but I'm not.

When I've stilled again, Blaine reaches out for my rigid cock and pulls my legs apart while tugging forcefully, grunting against my ear with his breath tickling the small hairs at my neck. I can feel that his hand is moist from something, and I don't really want to think about where the wetness came from, but he firmly slathers it between my legs and I can't help but cry out both in frustration and confusion. Finally a finger slathers the smallest bit of liquid over my hole and I practically quiver with thankfulness.

He releases my cock and aligns himself peculiarly, keeping my back against the wall and shifting himself slightly lower than his already shorter stature. The reason behind his stance is answered quickly as his cock slides between my thighs toward my ass and my dick throbs as the smooth skin of his shaft brushes against my ass cheeks. Another couple of touches would send me right over the edge without any real friction or pulling on my neglected cock, but Blaine doesn't seem interested in gentle erotic caresses. His length nudges roughly at my ass cheeks, seeking my hole, but not getting close enough to satisfy my needs but purely working toward his own end. And then he pauses, his head just beside my opening, and I throb again in need as I feel myself start to stretch around him.

_Fuck me_, I want to scream. _Ram yourself inside of me.  
_

But he moves with such excruciating slowness that I'm afraid I'll burst before I'm completely full. He guides himself slowly deeper, and when I shift to try and hurry his progress, he pushes me against the wall again, holding me immobile.

He makes it only about halfway inside of me before he stops. It's all I can do not to whimper in tortured frustration when he begins to draw out of me again. He's doing this intentionally. He's driving me mad on purpose. The angle is peculiar as my hips are jutting from the wall awkwardly as it's the only part of me that's able to bend at this point, but I can tell he's doing it to ensure that he's the one driving us both closer to our peaks.

He withdraws from me completely, then pauses for several long, excruciating seconds. It's the encounter in the gallery all over again—he's getting off on my desperation.

He begins to move into me again. My fingers curl into fists and then uncurl again as he pushes slowly in my ass. Every moment is agony, yet I've never been so aware of my body before. Every time Blaine shifts, a thousand new nerve endings respond. I'm intensely aware of every adjustment my body makes for his, every tremor of my flesh, every firm, hot inch of his arousal.

I'm half-delirious when he stops and withdraws the second time. I nearly sob in desperation, but I'm afraid that if I don't remain silent—if I refuse to play by his rules—he'll leave me in this horrible state forever. If he releases me now, if he leaves me empty and unfulfilled this time, then I'll dissolve into a puddle at his feet.

I can't take it anymore. I spit out the gag and twist my head, capturing his ear in my teeth before he has the chance to move away. I suck the lobe into my mouth, returning the bite he gave me earlier.

Now it's his turn to fight down a growl of pleasure. He tries to push me away from him again, but I only clamp down harder - both with my teeth and within the muscle walls of my ass. The hand that doesn't hold my wrists reaches around and grabs my ass, half lifting me even as he grinds against me once more and shoving my legs apart even further, flinging them to the side as if they serve no purpose for him at the current moment.

Suddenly he yanks me down onto his length so hard and so fast that my teeth break the skin of his ear. This time he doesn't manage to stifle the sound that rises in his throat, but he doesn't seem to care anymore. For a moment we both freeze, locked around each other, while the metallic tang of his blood fills my mouth and my other opening throbs around the fullness of his cock. I slowly loosen my jaw and lean my head back against the wall, reveling in the mind-numbing sensations pulsating from my core.

And then he begins to move.

No longer with tortuous slowness, thank God, but with steady, eager strokes. He thrusts into me, over and over again, while I rock against him as much as our position allows.

His fingers dig into the underside of my thigh as he lifts my leg, allowing for deeper access. I strain against the belt around my wrists, against the hand that still keeps them pinned against the wall. I want to tear at his hair. I want to suck on his lips and tongue. I want to dig my nails into his back and leave new scratches next to the marks from this afternoon. But I can't move. I'm completely at his power, subject to his lust.

It's the thrill of that thought that sends me completely over the edge with only the slightest rub of my cock against his firm body. My entire body convulses, and it's only his strong arms around me that keep me from collapsing at his feet as the orgasm sweeps through me. My teeth clamp down on my bottom lip as I struggle to keep from crying out.

Blaine keeps moving, even when I fall limply against him. I turn my face and close my teeth around a bit of skin at his neck, nipping at him as I squeeze the muscles in my ass once more, tightening myself around him.

He lets out an unrestrained grunt, nearly dropping me as he shudders in release. I pull my teeth away from his skin and slide my leg off his hip, only just managing to regain my feet before he slumps forward against me and the wall.

For a moment, neither of us stirs. His mouth is against my ear, his warm breath stirring my hair at the base of my neck. I'm warm from the inside out, and while a part of me never wants to move, the other, more practical side of me remembers we're standing in a cold, empty room in his basement.

I shift from beneath him and reach down to collect my jeans, remembering too late that my wrists are still bound. I strain against the belt, trying to twist myself free, but in the end Blaine has to untie me himself.

It's too dark to see much, but I feel his eyes on me all the same as I fumble again for my pants. My wrists are throbbing from their confinement, but I don't let that on to him. There are a dozen feelings rushing through me right now, and I'm not sure which ones to acknowledge. Part of me is still giddy from passion, while the other half can't allow me to forget about why we ended up like this in the first place—I lost. Once more Blaine won our bet, and there's little chance he'll give me yet another opportunity to win the money for the Center. I'm back where I started.

Blaine seems far less confused by all of this. "There's no need to put your clothes back on," he says. I yank up my zipper, angry at the hungry way my body responds to his words, even now.

"You've had your prize," I respond.

"We agreed you'd be mine for the night," he says, his voice low and husky. "And I'm afraid, Mr. Hummel, we're just getting started." He reaches out and brushes a finger down my arm. I shiver at the contact and curse myself again for falling so easily for his charms. This is ridiculous. I'm supposed to hate this man. I _do _hate this man. He's poised to destroy everything I love. So how is it that, time and again, he can say a simple word, or touch me just so, and make me forget everything but the way the blood is rushing through my veins?

I'm a modern, sensible man. I've allowed myself to be swayed by a man before—with Adam—and I'm not going to let that happen again. So why am I having such trouble now? Why do I still feel like throwing myself in his arms and letting him take me again?

If I'd managed a moment longer in our game, things would be different. If I'd secured the money for the Center, then I could fall into his embrace without this guilt weighing down on my shoulders. Instead, it feels like every surge of pleasure I feel, every sigh he draws from my lips, is a betrayal of the Center and my dad and everything we've ever worked for.

It's all the fault of my fucking phone.

I jam my hand into my pocket and whip out my cell, determined to see who cost me everything. I want to cry foul, to call for a rematch, but even if I thought Blaine would oblige me, I know it's too late. I didn't fight him when he pressed me up against the wall and had his way with me. I as good as accepted defeat.

I pull up my missed calls list. The blue light of the screen seems unnaturally bright now, but I don't even blink as I gaze down at the name.

Surprise, surprise. "Dipshit" continues to ruin my life. I _knew _asking him to help would come back to bite me in the ass.

"Kurt?" Blaine reaches out and touches me again, this time along my exposed collarbone. "Is something wrong?"

_Only that my ex is insane and won't leave me alone_. I shouldn't have asked Adam for a favor. I should have listened to my gut. But desperation makes people do crazy things.

"Everything's fine," I say, sliding the phone back into my pocket. I'll deal with Adam later.

"It doesn't seem fine," Blaine says. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say there was genuine concern in his voice. But that obviously can't be the case; I mean nothing to him other than an attractive man that he can bed that will whet his appetite rather than having his hand do the job.

"It's nothing you should concern yourself with." I reach down and attempt to find my shirt that had been abandoned as Blaine was claiming his booty - pun definitely intended. "I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly willing to spend the night down here. It's dark, damp and nothing nearly as nice as my basement bedroom I had in high school."

"I suppose we could move this party into an actual bed," he notions, slight jest in his tone though he sighs as he pulls his pants on and buckles his belt. If he's upset by my sudden emotional disconnection from him, he doesn't allude to his frustration in the slightest. "There are a few things I'm eager to show you."

Something in the way in which he phrases it stirs me; he's such an intentional person and I know that his meaning is laced with innuendo. I can't afford to continue to be affected by him, it will only lead to frustration and further confusion in the end.

Blaine's touch pulls me from my thoughts and he traces my back and holds his hand gently at the base of my spine. "Come on," he says with the somewhat saccharine that continues to throw me off base. "Let's head upstairs. I can have Martin bring something to us in bed."

I want to refuse him - I should refuse him. But it seems like I've lost the battle and like the war as well. I know I'm at his mercy and despite my protestations, he's going to win. Besides, it's not like I can sink much lower; I've lost the Center for Will and myself and I have nothing left to lose. I have no shreds of dignity, no chance to win, and absolutely no hope.

When Blaine leans over and slips his tongue in my ear, I know that I literally have no chance of winning as my cock seems to listen to his every move despite my mind telling it otherwise.

* * *

An hour later, I lie naked in Blaine's bed.

Blaine himself stands next to a cart of food that Martin brought up a little while ago. I can't decide where to look: at the gorgeous plates of food he's revealing one by one or the equally gorgeous vision of his well-muscled body. In this light, his tanned skin is a pale bronze, and his hair looks even darker— almost black. The shadows play across his pecs and abs in a way that highlights every groove, every firm round edge of muscle beneath his skin. I finally have the chance to notice the dusting of hair on his chest, and the way his waist narrows from his broad shoulders into a perfect V. By my estimation, he's the perfect specimen of a man—why no one's tried to carve a copy of this one out of marble yet, I can't guess.

"Like what you see?"

I glance up to find Blaine smiling at me with amusement. I sit up quickly on the bed, embarrassed to be caught staring. "I'm only eager for the food," I say, but I know he knows better, even if the heat on my cheeks doesn't give me away.

Blaine sets down the dish he's holding and walks over to the bed. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about," he says. His fingers slip beneath my hair and he tilts my head back to look at him. Our eyes lock, and he holds my gaze as his thumb drifts up and down the column of my throat. "There's nothing wrong with looking," he tells me. "I've spent the better part of these past few days looking at you."

I feel like I should say something, but I can't find the words. "You're beautiful, Kurt. An Adonis. Does it bother you that I want to admire your body?" Not at all, truth be told. But I've never had a guy come out and ask me a question like that so bluntly before.

"It doesn't bother me," I manage. The corner of Blaine's mouth twists up, but it's no longer amusement that marks his features—rather something ravenous and wicked. He lowers me gently onto my back on the bed and drags the comforter away from my body.

His eyes dance over my skin, starting with my neck and moving all the way down to my toes. His gaze is so intense that I swear I can almost feel the heat of that smolder on my skin. There's a trail of tingling nerves down the length of my body, and he hasn't even touched me yet.

When he does touch me, just above the collarbone, it's like my flesh jumps to meet him. Still, I remain perfectly motionless as his finger brushes back and forth.

"At first," he says softly, "I thought your neck was the loveliest part of your body." His mouth curls lazily. "It was back at that fundraiser you threw for your organization. You wore this black suit with the top two buttons undone. I remember thinking how long and graceful your neck looked." I must make a face because his eyebrow quirks up. "What? Don't believe me?"

"You remember what I wore to Arts & Hearts?"

"Of course."

"But you looked so bored."

He laughs. "I'd just stepped off a flight from Rome. I was fighting a jet lag headache from hell. Anyway," he says, tracing my lower lip with his fingers, "how could I be bored when I got to watch you all night?"

I want to believe him, but I have a feeling he's just feeding me a line. "Even if you're telling the truth about that," I say. "I don't believe for a minute that you were checking out my neck, of all things. Men don't think that way. The first things men notice are your cock or your ass, depending on which way you're facing."

He chuckles and runs his fingers across the curve of my shoulder. "I'm not going to dispute what other men may or may not admire first. But I remember you very clearly, Mr. Hummel. As I said, you were wearing a black suit. Your neck was exposed. No tie or anything." He reaches up and weaves his hand in my hair. "Your hair was done and expertly laid in place, but one tendril managed to escape and fall along here." He twists a section of my hair at my forehead around his finger and lays it against my hairline, the tip of the hair resting toward my eyes. I immediately regretted not getting a haircut this week since my hair was far longer than I normally kept it and this time without product made me feel on edge.

But despite my too-long hair and lack of product, I can't help but notice my heart is fluttering in my chest. I reach up and grab the section of hair from his hand and comb it back to put it with the rest. The passionate, dominant Blaine I can handle—the one who leaves bruises on my skin and shoves my shirt into my mouth to keep me silent—but I don't know how to deal with this gentler version of him. Yes, I wore a black suit to the Arts & Hearts fundraiser with my neck exposed; I couldn't decide on a tie so I just decided to go without. I always do my hair, and I'm not surprised to hear that a tendril escaped with the hustle and bustle of the evening, but I _am _surprised that he noticed. That he remembers, even now.

"Why didn't you say anything then?"

"I promised my father I'd behave myself," he replies, "and I was afraid your man-friend would start a fight if I stole you away."

_My man-friend? _Oh, of course—I was still with Adam at the time. I'm glad Blaine had the sense to stay away. As controlling as my ex was at the end, he would definitely have caused a scene if he thought another man was coming on to me.

"Is he the one who's been calling you?" Blaine says, reading into my silence.

"It's long over, if that's what you're wondering," I assure him. "But I don't want to talk about him. I want you to continue explaining how you didn't notice my ass."

He laughs. "I'll admit," he continues, drawing his finger down my body, "that I noticed your ass, too." To emphasize his point, he curls a hand around my ass, filling his palm. "So soft, so round, so perfect..." He brushes his thumb across the tender skin along the crack.

He gives me another one of his grins and then continues his voyage around my body. His hands move up across my skin slowly, delicately, as if I'm a precious, breakable thing that might shatter at his touch. He traces each of my ribs in turn, as if has all the time in the world to explore my body, not just this night I've promised him.

"And your arms," he says, taking me by the wrist and lifting my arm from the sheets. "Such long, lovely, muscular arms, with perfect hands and fingers." He raises my fingers to his lips and kisses them one by one.

"They look so innocent," he continues, "but I know very well what pleasure and what pain they can cause." He brings my fingers around to his back, placing them on the scratch marks I made this morning. Was that only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago.

I look at Blaine. How many days have I been here now? Two? Three? They're all running together. I hardly know this man, and what I do know isn't particularly good, but I feel something when I look at him, when he looks at me—it's strange. There's _something_, some understanding, some connection that I don't think either of us could put a name to, even if we tried.

"And your legs," he says, sliding further down my body. He takes a single finger and traces me, light as a feather, from hip to ankle, and then back up again. It tickles, but I don't feel the urge to laugh. I feel like a blade of grass shaking and helpless beneath the wind. "Long and thin yet surprisingly muscular and they look incredible in skinny jeans."

Blaine leans down and kisses my toes, one by one, as he kissed my fingers. "Every inch of you is beautiful." I close my eyes for a moment, letting his words wash over me, but I don't let myself enjoy them too long.

"That's a pretty line," I say, eyes still closed. "But you don't have to try so hard. I'm already at your mercy." He doesn't say anything for a moment.

"It's not a line," he offers finally. His hand sweeps over my throat once more. "Do you think I'm exaggerating?"

I peer at him through my lashes. "Maybe. Maybe not. I think you're a man who's had a lot of practice charming men into bed with him." My bluntness seems to surprise him for the briefest of moments.

"I've been with other men, of course. But I'm here with you now, and every word I speak is the truth."

I raise my eyebrow. I don't think I'm unattractive, by any means—in fact, I've always been a little proud of my looks—but I know better than to trust the compliments of a silver-tongued billionaire playboy, especially one who's admitted to romancing actors and models.

"You hardly know me," I say.

"And that means I can't think you're beautiful?" I suppose it doesn't. "Besides, it's not fair to compare yourself to any other men anyway." His thumb roams lazily along the line of my jaw. "I've never had a man force his way onto my property before, and I've never had to tackle one in the mud."

I roll my eyes, but he catches me by the chin and forces me to look up at him. "And I've certainly never had so much fun playing hide and seek with one. You're something else completely."

My neck and cheeks go hot at his words, but he still has me by the chin and I can't look away. "You're something else yourself," I manage after a moment.

His eyes darken at my words. "Oh?"

Where do I begin? He's the most infuriating man I've ever met—and the sexiest. In any given moment I can't decide whether I want to scream at him or stick my tongue in his mouth. I reach up and place my hands on his bare skin. He's propped on his arms, leaning over me, and all the muscles of his chest are firm, contracted. I slide my hands down his belly, reveling in the hardness of his body.

Then, without warning, I give him a shove. He topples off me, landing on his back beside me, and before he can recover I've sprung up and reversed our positions. Now I'm leaning over him and he's helpless beneath me.

"You don't always get to be the one in control." I gaze down the length of him, taking in every delicious inch of his body. "I think it's my turn to explore you."

The hunger on his face is unmistakable, but he makes no move to stop me as I sidle up his body and place my finger on his collarbone, exactly where he began his inspection of me.

He truly is spectacular. I'm getting turned on already, and I haven't even moved past the PG section of his body. His skin is soft and warm beneath my touch, and I brush the pads of my fingers lightly down his chest. I glance up at his face, and I find him staring down at me, his eyes dark and half-lidded. His breathing is heavy.

I continue my exploration down over his ribs, across his stomach. I want to feel every muscle, to know the power of his body beneath my fingers. This body could hold me down; take me again and again until I begged for mercy.

His arms come next, and his warm hands. I close his fingers in my own, marveling at the calluses I find: stories, each one. Where did this rough patch on his thumb come from? How did he earn this mark on his palm? They're the hands of a man who's done things.

It only reminds me how little I know about this man in front of me. What was he doing, a week ago from now? A year? Five? He has a life outside his business with the Center. A life outside his interactions with me.

There's another mark on his left hand. A red streak on his palm. "What is it?" he asks when he notices me lingering.

I flip over his hand and trace the scar with my finger. "What's this from?"

He gives a chuckle and twists his hand slightly in my grasp, stretching the scar and making it stand out all the more against his golden skin. "I was nineteen when I got that. I was an idiot. Got a little over-zealous trying to fix the rudder on our boat." He flexes his fingers. "My father said I was trying too hard to impress my date."

"I didn't realize you had a boat." Not that I should be surprised. He probably inherited an entire fleet. My mind automatically tries to calculate the value of a boat compared to the size of his father's pledge, but I suppress the thought. I don't want to think about it.

"Not anymore," Blaine replies to my question, suddenly somber. "I sold it a couple of months ago."

_Oh. _A "couple of months" means he probably got rid of it shortly after his father died. Maybe he thought he'd never use it himself, or maybe it reminded him too much of his dad. I don't know what to say. I didn't mean to bring up memories of his father, especially not while we're here in bed together. His eyes are distant, sad, and I reach down and touch him gently on the cheek.

His gaze snaps to me, and the melancholy disappears as quickly as it appeared. In its place is something akin to annoyance. He bats my hand away. "I'm fine."

I sit back, startled at his sudden shift in mood. "You don't seem fine," I say carefully.

"Don't start that." He twists away from me and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He pauses for a moment—just long enough to sweep his hand across his face—then rises and goes back to the cart of food.

I remain frozen, stunned. I was only trying to offer my compassion, but if he doesn't want it, then fine. I won't pretend to give a damn. I force myself to unclench my fists and sit back on the bed. I'm not his boyfriend. I'm not even his friend. We even said it out in my car—after this weekend, we'll probably never see each other again. There's no reason for me to get worked up over his moods or try to help him with his daddy issues.

Still, I can't help but feel saddened at the pain he's clearly suppressing. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he resumes the task of laying out the food. His shoulders are stiff, his normally sensual mouth drawn in a hard line. I can't read the expression in his dark eyes, but he looks like he's about to explode with some dark emotion.

I sigh and close my eyes. Who am I to judge how someone deals with the loss of their father? I'd be a mess, too.

I know better than to raise the issue with him again, but I don't think it's a good idea to let him stew on his feelings, either.

"What did Martin send?" I say pleasantly. It's a risk. For a moment he doesn't respond, and I wonder if I crossed the line, but then he lets out a slow breath.

"Oysters," he says casually. "And pasta in a light cream sauce." He moves the trays over to a small table set against the wall. "I hope you're hungry?"

"Starving."

When he looks up at me again, all hints of his previous surliness are gone. Instead he smiles at me, and the expression makes my insides twist. "Good." He holds out his hand. "Come on. You'll need your energy if you're going to survive the night ahead of you."

I don't believe for a minute he's forgotten all his emotions of a moment ago, but if he wants to pretend that he's not hurting, then fine. I'll play along. It's not like I'm not suppressing my own tumultuous feelings about Blaine's role in the current state of the Brooklyn Center. No, tonight isn't about delving into our emotions. It's about forgetting about the troubles of the outside world and focusing on the joys our bodies can bring each other.

And honestly? One look at the wicked expression on Blaine's face, and I'm perfectly okay with that.

* * *

If I thought Blaine was magnificent before, it doesn't take long before I'm convinced he's a genuine sex god. A couple of hours after dinner, we lie tangled among the rumpled sheets, sticky with sweat and breathless from our exertions.

"Wow," I whisper into the darkness.

Blaine chuckles and pulls me closer to him. My arm rests across his chest, my leg across his thighs. I feel his lips press against the top of my head as I shuffle down his body. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," he murmurs against my hair. He runs his hand up my arm.

I give a contented sigh. My entire body aches. Blaine bent me into positions I've never even imagined before, let alone attempted, and my arms and legs feel like jelly. He brought me to the peak of ecstasy and back again, and my flesh still quivers at the memory.

"You're a feisty thing," he tells me. "Anyone who sees my back will think I was attacked by an animal." I start to pull away, embarrassed, but he laughs and grabs me closer again. "That's a good thing. I like a man who's not afraid to get wild, and you, sweet Kurt, are the wildest one I've ever met."

Now it's my turn to laugh, and he grabs me and kisses me. I draw him closer. Maybe this is just sex. And maybe I don't really know him that well. But there's a part of me, deep down, that knows I've glimpsed a deeper side of him, however briefly, and I know I've exposed a bit of myself to him, too.

And that terrifies me. "Go to sleep," he says, and kisses me again. "I plan to wake you again in an hour."

I bite my lip, and he gives a low chuckle and closes his eyes. In minutes he's asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath my arm. I'm exhausted, too, but I know slumber won't come for me anytime soon. I've got too much on my mind.

I wait for a few more moments, just to make sure he's completely out, before I slowly ease my way out of his arms. There's just something too... _intimate _about lying entwined while we sleep. This is _just sex_. Just a few crazy days of indulging some wild lust. After I leave this place, I'll never have a reason to contact Blaine ever again, and he has no reason to contact me either. I need to remember that.

I climb out of bed and fumble around in the darkness for my jeans. I finally find them in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed, and I reach in the pocket and pull out my phone.

My heart almost stops when I see the number of missed calls. I thought I heard my ringtone go off a couple of hours ago, but Blaine and I were a little preoccupied at the time. Now I wonder how I managed to miss it ringing _eight _times over the course of the evening.

All of the calls are from Adam.

I panic. Has something happened at the Center? Or to Will? I click into voicemail and hold my breath as it connects.

"You have eight new messages," the automated voice tells me.

"Hey, Kurt," Adam's message begins. He sounds perfectly calm. "Just wanted to check in, since you haven't returned my last couple of calls. I talked to your boss, and he says you're stuck in Manhattan because of the weather and the street you're on or something. I'm worried about you. Give me a call, okay?"

In the next one he's starting to sound a little agitated.

"Hey, Kurt, it's me. I haven't heard from you. I just want to make sure you're okay. Will you call me and let me know where you are? I have the Jeep, remember? I can probably manage the roads if your car can't make it. But I need to know where you are. Now's not the time to be stubborn. You asked for my help with the Center. I'm not going to let you shut me out again. Call me back."

With each subsequent message I can tell he's getting progressively more frustrated, and by the sixth he's starting to sound livid.

"Dammit, Kurt, don't leave me hanging," he says. "I know you're up to something. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but this is ridiculous. Where the hell are you?"

But it's the next one that really ticks me off. "What the fuck is going on? Fuck this! I'm not your fucking puppet! You can't just expect me to do you favors and then fucking blow me off. I deserve some basic fucking respect. Excuse me for giving a fuck."

It makes me so angry that I almost don't listen to the final message, but it starts before I can hang up.

"Look, Kurt, I'm sorry," Adam says. He sounds defeated. "You just drive me crazy, you know that? Call me, please. Please. I promise I'll do what I can for the Center. Just call me and tell me what you're doing. I know you, Kurt. You get these crazy ideas in your head sometimes. I just want to make sure you're safe." There's a long pause, and then he sighs deeply. "Please, Kurt. I miss you. I still—"

I hang up before I can hear the rest and throw the phone down on the carpet. I'm so upset that I'm shaking. What the hell does he think he's doing, blowing up my phone like that? We're not together anymore. I'm not obligated to answer his calls, and I'm certainly not obligated to tell him where I am at any given minute.

I've seen Adam's temper before. It never reached the point of physical violence, thank God, but there was plenty of abuse on the verbal end. There's no talking to him when he gets worked up. It's like he morphs into a completely different person—one that completely terrifies me.

I knew it was a bad idea to ask him. Fuck me and my stupid, desperate decision-making.

I'm having trouble standing still, so I grab Blaine's shirt from the ground and slip it on. I march over to the table; grab our half-finished bottle of wine from dinner, and head over to the double French doors at the far side of the room. I don't care that it's raining. I pull open the doors and step out onto the balcony.

The cold, wet air is a welcome slap in the face. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, and I wonder if that means I'll be able to go home tomorrow. I lean against the railing and take a swig of wine right from the bottle. Clearly, Kurt Hummel is the epitome of class right now.

This whole thing is a mess, and I'm not sure there's any way out at this point. The Center isn't any closer to getting help. Adam is back in my life—and worse than ever. And on top of it all, Blaine has turned my insides into a big confused pile of mush.

I take another swig and stare out across the park, which you can see from afar. The city seems to twinkle in the twilight and the rain only seems to make the city seem more beautiful and ethereal. If I was here under different circumstances, I would like it more, but all I can feel right now is rage, resentment and resigned. And a little confused.

My body has never responded to anyone as it does to Blaine. And it's not just the way my flesh prickles when he's near, or the way my breath seems to stop when he kisses me. There's something that coils in my stomach when we're close to each other, something more than just physical attraction. Every time I see a glimpse of pain in his eyes, or the darkness of a suppressed memory dance across his features, the coil tightens. There's the potential for something else here, something deeper, but I know it's stupid to indulge those feelings. That course can only end in heartbreak.

The situation with Adam only emphasizes that case. I _knew _it was stupid to call him again, even with completely innocent intentions, and it still blew up in my face. I need to start listening to my gut and stop allowing myself to be swayed by desperation or attraction or whatever it is that keeps getting me into trouble.

I take another swig of wine and close my eyes. I force myself to focus on the feeling of the cool rain hitting my skin, of the drops sliding down my face and neck. Not for the first time this weekend, I'm struck by the sensation that this is all just some odd, vivid dream, and that any moment I'll wake and go off to work at the Center and all of these emotions rushing through me will be forgotten by the time I've finished my first cup of coffee.

"Drinking without me?"

Blaine's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. When I turn, he's standing in the doorway, heavy-lidded and looking absolutely delectable, for all that he's unfortunately decided to pull on a pair of pants before joining me in the rain. I turn back toward the rail and take another gulp of wine, fighting down the surge that rises in my belly at the sight of him.

"I didn't want to wake you up," I say without looking at him. He joins me at the railing.

"Aren't you cold out here?"

I shake my head. "It feels nice." He holds out his hand for the wine bottle, and I pass it over.

He takes a drink and hands it back. "It's not often that I fall asleep with a man in my arms and wake up to an empty bed."

"No?" I ask. "Is it usually the other way around?"

I stare down at the wine bottle, but I can feel Blaine's gaze on me, and I know he's trying to read me in the darkness.

"That's not what I meant," he says finally. "I'll admit, I have a reputation for preferring sex to the intimacy that might come after, but it's rare to meet someone other than me with such sentiments."

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting. I couldn't sleep. That's all." He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and I can't help myself. "And even if I am 'avoiding intimacy' or whatever it is you're accusing me of, why does it matter?" I say. "I have no misconceptions about what's going on here. Why should I act like I have feelings for you when we're just fucking?"

"Is that what you think? That we're just fucking?"

I blink up at him in the rain, and I can't keep the shock from my voice. "Isn't it?"

Again he doesn't answer immediately, and I'm not sure whether it's panic or some other emotion that makes my chest contract.

When he finally answers, he avoids the question completely. "Tell me, what happened with that guy you were with at your fundraiser?" His query hits so close to all of my angst of the past couple of days that for a moment I'm stunned into silence.

"How—why does it even matter?" I say finally.

Blaine takes the bottle from my hand and has another swig of wine. "I told you that I didn't approach you because I wasn't looking to start a fight," he says, "but that's not the whole truth. The other reason I didn't say anything to you was because I knew it would have been a lost cause. You only had eyes for him."

_Was I that obvious? _I wonder. Had I been that caught up in Adam? I think back to that night, to everything that had been going on between Adam and me the time. Arts & Hearts had fallen only a month before our breakup. I'd sensed something wrong between us for weeks already, but I'd still been desperate to save our relationship. I loved him so much—stupidly so, I now realize—and I wanted to make things work.

It was Valentine's Day, and I felt gorgeous in my black suit—not to mention immensely proud of what I'd accomplished with the event. That night Adam was his normal, charming self, but nothing more. He laughed at Will's jokes, listened attentively to the stories of our guests and patrons. But there'd been nothing for me. No secret smile, no admiring glances, no kind words about the work I'd done—or even appreciative comments about my outfit. I was a pathetic idiot. I should have realized it was over then. Hell, I should have dumped his ass ages before that.

Just thinking about it makes me sick.

"We broke up," I tell Blaine. "Not long after the event. I thought we'd discussed this already."

He takes another gulp of wine and passes it back to me. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Don't worry," I assure him, wrapping my hands around the rain-soaked bottle. "I'm free to fuck whoever I like."

"That's not what I meant."

"No?"

He gives a humorless chuckle. "Kurt, that guy was an asshole. Anyone could see it." Except me, apparently. And Will. And the half-dozen friends and guests who'd complimented me on landing the handsome, successful journalist. I don't even know what my dad would have thought considering Adam never seemed eager to meet him the handful of times my dad made the trek to New York. I believe the phrase "great catch" was thrown around more than once.

But Blaine's not done.

"He's the kind of guy who just likes to hear himself talk. He expects everyone to fawn over him, and most of the time, people do. He's happy as long as he thinks you need him. Meanwhile he couldn't care less about what you actually think or want or feel. It's a very one-sided sort of relationship, I imagine."

He's so on the nose about Adam that I don't even know what to say. He got all that from watching us interact for one evening? "Though I bet," Blaine continues, "that as soon as he thinks you're moving on, or that you don't need him anymore, he changes his tune completely. Guys like that hate it when they realize you don't need them anymore."

I think of Adam's messages this evening, and I know Blaine has it exactly right. "It's over," I assure him again. "Don't worry. I have no misconceptions about him anymore."

"Good. You deserve better than that. You deserve a guy who appreciates you, who considers himself lucky as fuck to know that you chose to be with him."

I roll my eyes. "Are we in an after-school special now?"

"I'm serious, Kurt. You're a remarkable man."

"I don't even know why we're having this conversation," I say. "I thought we were just fucking?"

Something flashes in his eyes—is that disappointment? Anger? Something darker? I don't trust myself to know.

I wait for him to argue, but instead he pulls me hard against him. "Just fucking, huh?" he breathes against my hair. "Then maybe we should be doing a little more of that." He kisses me, and heat explodes through my body. His tongue slips into my mouth, and I suck it between my teeth. He moans and grabs my ass, grinding against me. Forget all the rest. This I understand. This I want. I twine my hands in his hair and curl my fingers against his scalp, holding his mouth against mine. There are no questions, no judgment, and no exes. Just desire.

He breaks away from me, but only enough to yank his shirt off of me. He tosses it aside, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom and lube. He's prepared, as always. He pushes down his pants in one movement, but before I can admire his naked form he grabs me, twists me around, and pushes me forward. My hands grasp at the railing, but he catches me by the hips, drawing my ass back toward him. His hand closes around the back of my neck, holding me bent over the railing. My fingers curl around the rail, and I lean my head forward to rest my forehead on the wet wrought iron. I imagine the people in the building behind Blaine's could see us if they looked outside, but I couldn't really care.

The hand that doesn't hold my neck slips across the curve of my ass, down between my ass cheeks. His fingers dance across my hole, gently exploring, sliding his finger in and out using the rain for lubrication until my entire body is quivering. My skin has grown so hot that the rain now feels icy-cold on my back.

"You want to be fucked, Kurt?" he rasps over the rain. I nod. "Answer me," he growls, tightening his hold on my neck.

"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, please, yes."

There's a rush of cold air as he stands upright again, and I hardly have time to register the cold rain on my back and the crinkle I hear of wrappers opening before he rams into me. I suck in a breath and my fingers tighten on the railing. Not having been properly lubed in advance is not making this entirely painless, but the pain is a whisper while the pleasure tearing through me is a loud roar. "Is this what you want?" Blaine says. He withdraws and then thrusts again, driving more deeply this time.

I let out a moan.

"Say it," he commands roughly. "Say it!"

"Yes. Yes, I want this." My voice cracks on the last word.

He removes his hand from my neck, but only so he can grab my hips with both hands. His fingers dig into my skin as he drives into me another time. "What do you want, Kurt? Say the whole thing."

I squeeze the rail. "I want you to fuck me."

He groans, and then he loses all semblance of control. He thrusts, again and again with wild abandon, and it's all I can do to keep my grip on the railing. I'm gasping for breath, overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside of me. In this position, he feels deeper in me than he ever has before.

"Is...this...what...you...want?" Blaine grunts. His fingers dig into my hips.

"Yes," I rasp. "Fuck me, yes." He continues to pound into me, and it's all I can do not to continue my cursing. I can feel my body tensing and tightening, building toward release. I press my forehead against the rail, trying to keep myself together.

But Blaine has another idea. He reaches up and grabs my neck harshly, pulling my head up. There's a sharp pain in my neck and chest from the rapid movement, but I don't care.

He thrusts again, and I cry out as my climax hits me hard, spurting my come on the rail and the ground two floors below. I grip the railing with white knuckles and bite down on the back of my hand to keep from screaming. From the way Blaine groans behind me, I know he feels the way I'm tightening and pulsing around his cock.

He gives a low, rough chuckle. He enjoys watching me fall apart in pleasure. "Again?" he asks, continuing his rhythmic movements. It would be so easy to let him take me to the edge once more. My flesh craves it. My heart is beating so fast I'm afraid it's going to burst right out of my ribs, and I'm struggling to catch a solid breath. Blaine's grip tightens, and his speed increases. He's not going to show me any mercy.

But as much as I love letting him control these intense encounters, suddenly I'm struck by an urge that I can't allow myself to ignore. Our sexual encounters have been one sided and if he's wanting to go for round two, maybe _he _is the one that should be fucked to oblivion.

"Wait," I gasp. "Blaine, wait."

He slows. "Don't worry, your body can handle it. The second one will be even better."

"No, that's not what I mean." I twist myself away from him. I'm not prepared for the sudden rush of cold I feel when we're separated, or the weakness in my body when I pull myself upright. Blaine stands rigid in front of me, and I can only imagine what he's thinking and feeling right now.

"Sit in the chair," I say.

"What?" His voice is tight.

"You heard me." My voice is stronger, steadier than my body feels right now. "Sit in the chair."

This time my meaning sinks in, and there's a touch of amusement in Blaine's voice when he speaks again. "I'm supposed to be the one in charge tonight. That was the bargain."

I desperately grasp at the tiny bud of confidence the wine left behind. "I don't think you know what you're missing," I say in my sultriest voice.

He steps closer to me, pressing me back up against the rail. "You sound very sure of yourself." I reach up and run a lone finger down his body, starting at his throat and ending at the base of his hard length.

"We're not properly fucking if you never let me top," I say as I wrap my fingers around him. He laughs, but it's a rough, hungry sound.

"A valid point." He steps away from me, and I revel at the sense of power I feel as I watch him settle obediently in one of the balcony's chairs. I take a deep breath. I'll admit it: I prefer when he's in control, when I'm at the mercy of his hands and mouth and cock. But there's something deep inside me that needs to do this that needs to control him for a moment.

I move slowly toward him, and when I'm standing in front of his chair, I reach out and place my hands on his broad shoulders. His muscles flex slightly beneath my touch. I step forward, sitting between his opened legs as he lounges slightly in the chair, and then I run my fingers down his arms, over his smooth hot skin. I can feel him watching me intently, even though I can hardly see his face in the dark. I can hear his heavy breathing over the rain.

I move one hand to his chest and slide it down his stomach, echoing my touch of a moment ago. When I reach the base of his cock, I find him still rock-hard and ready. For all his initial hesitation, he still seems pretty excited to let me take the reins. I curl my fingers around him and slide my hand gently down his length. He's still slick from being inside me and I pull hard to try and grab some of the moisture from the lube he'd snuck in as I use it to wet my fingers.

"Maybe I should torture you a little," I say, taking my time as I slide my hand up his length again while slowly tucking my hand behind his ass to graze over his hole. "Maybe I should give you a taste of your own medicine."

He moans, and his hands grab me by the hips. "You're already torturing me," he says, his voice tight. I smile. It's incredibly arousing to be the one in charge for once. I love watching him crumble beneath my touch.

I lower myself a little more down his body so if I was to kneel on my knees, my now hard cock would likely be right next to Blaine's chest. We're as close as we can be without penetration and the angle leaves me with a teasing notion of what's to come. "Not nearly enough." I slide myself forward so that he can feel my cock against his body, so that the head of my cock is teasing between his legs. He groans and tightens his grip on my hips, urging me with his hands.

"I'm in charge here," I remind him. "We're doing this at my speed." I finally breach the hole that's been shaking since I sat between his legs and he lets out a long, shaky breath, and I know it's taking all of his self-control to keep from going at his own pace rather than let me maintain control. I lean forward and brush my lips along his neck. Once, twice, three times while my finger easily brushes in and out of his ass. He sucks in a breath, but that's not enough. I move up to his ear, and then I run my tongue along its curved edge. He squirms a little beneath me, and his fingers tighten on me yet again. Finally I slip my tongue into the ear itself and swirl it around.

Blaine lets out a groan. "Enough," he rasps. "Kurt, please." He squirms beneath me. I'm tempted to give him what he wants, but I'm not done playing just yet. I stop my gentle fingering and extract my fingers to spit into my hand, letting the moisture run down my fingers and tease it further into his crack, causing him to moan in bliss.

I debate starting with one finger again but soon shift to two once I realize that Blaine is more than frustrated at the current, slow pace. Once two fingers have eased his opening, I push in a third, causing Blaine to practically jump off the lounge chair and I realize that I'd found the place in Blaine that makes him come apart.

I hastily remove my hands and look up at him, seeing frantic desire behind his eyes. "Condom?" I ask, not sure if he'd brought more than one with him.

He quickly rolls over to where he'd discarded his pants and pulls out a line of condoms. "Eager?" I ask.

"Optimistic," he retorts and sets himself back on the lounger, loosely fisting his cock as I struggle to not watch his movements and roll the condom on. Once it's secured, I take some of the excess moisture and rub it on my cock. Blaine seems impatient with my pace and grabs my thighs to pull me forward, causing my cock to rub against his ass cheeks that he's lifted up to ease me into him.

He moves, trying to drive me into him, but I twist away and shake my head. "We're doing this at my pace," I tell him, parroting back his own words from earlier. This time, when I position myself, he sits still, though I can tell by his low, throaty growl exactly what he thinks of my teasing.

I push myself into him slowly, until only the tip of me is inside of him. His shoulders are stiff beneath my hands, and I know he must be going crazy with self-restraint. Good. Let him suffer a little for all those times he's had me under his control. I push myself in a little more, and this time he leans forward to claim my neck. He nips at my throat, urging me onward as I continue my slow push forward.

By the time he's all the way wrapped around me me, his breath is ragged, and I know there are teeth marks all over my skin. His skin is blazing hot beneath my hands, and his body is slick with warm sweat, even in this drizzle. From the stiffness in his body, I suspect he's only barely contained. Truth be told, I'm having a little trouble controlling myself.

"How do you like it?" I whisper into his ear. "How does it feel to be at my mercy, for once?" I pull back again, just as slowly, and when Blaine doesn't answer me immediately, I know he's struggling. I lean forward and give his ear a playful bite.

"You're cruel," he says finally. "You're the cruelest, most infuriating man I've ever met." One of his hands moves to my neck, and he pulls me down into a kiss. I let him. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth and bear down with my teeth, just a little, just enough to make him moan again. He pulls away once more and begins tracing a path of kisses along my jawline.

"You're also the wildest," he says between kisses. "And the sexiest. And the most utterly intoxicating..." His words make the blood rush beneath my skin. I don't know how much longer I can hold back. I begin to rock in and out slowly, but every touch of Blaine's fingers and lips makes it that much more difficult to maintain this measured pace.

"Fuck, Kurt," he says. "You're killing me." This time he pushes upward, burying himself on me before I have the chance to stop him.

And that's it.

I begin to move into him, hard and fast, and he moans and echoes my movements, thrusting his hips up to meet me with his body. My fingers dig in his shoulders, and I throw my head back, letting the rain fall down on my face as I fuck him unlike I'd never fucked any other man before. Every jerk of my body wrings a grunt from his throat, and I'm matching his sounds of pleasure with cries of my own. I feel like a wild man, a crazed, sexual being who only wants one thing and will do anything to get it.

We push against each other until I know nothing but the heat and friction and pleasure. There's just me and his hands and my cock and his ass and his hot mouth moving across my exposed throat. He bites down on the tender flesh, and I cry out and move faster in him.

My thrusts are becoming more fitful. Blaine seems to notice, because he groans and thrusts more violently against me. I'm close to climaxing again but I want him to explode first.

The next time he thrusts to meet me, I stop moving. I take his ass into my hands and tilt him up slightly and plunge into his ass with a ferocity he hadn't seen before now.

He growls.

I slam into him again, and again, and the third time he gives another quick push against me before going rigid and I can see his cock spurting what's practically liquid gold all down my chest and his. Feeling him come beneath me sends me over the edge myself, and I cry out as I join him on the rippling waves of orgasm.

When the pleasure ends, I collapse against him.

"Well," Blaine murmurs in my ear after a moment. His voice is rough. "I think I'm going to like this 'just fucking' arrangement very much."

I know that I was the one who brought it up in the first place, but something twists a little in my stomach at his words. I'm not sure what's going on with me right now, but every sexual encounter with this man only seems to leave me more confused. At first, I clung to my hatred and told myself that my lust was only an unfortunate complication of the situation.

But the more I indulge my desires with Blaine, the more I find myself drawn to the man himself. I've caught glimpses of his own pain and frustration, and every time he holds me close like this and whispers sweet things in my ear, I find myself wishing I knew more of him. There's a softness to him, but it's hidden behind some emotions that I can't even begin to decipher.

But even though I'm starting to recognize my own feelings, I know they're wrong. This man is responsible for the Center's financial troubles. It doesn't matter what's happened between us this weekend—I can't forgive him for that.

I close my eyes and rest my forehead on his shoulder. I don't even try to respond to his last statement. I know I'll never find the words.

Instead, I try to focus on the cold of the rain on my back and try to ignore the cold that's taken root in my belly.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

By the time I wake up the next morning, the rain has stopped. Somehow we managed to stumble back to the bed after our romp on the balcony, but my hair is still damp behind the ears, making me shiver as I climb out of the sheets. I grab my shirt and pull it over my head as I go to inspect the sliver of sunlight coming in around the curtain. I push the thick fabric aside and peer out through the window. Sure enough, the sky is clear. I can even hear birds singing.

I turn back toward the bed where Blaine is resting peacefully, deliciously rumpled in the sheets that bear evidence of our sexual activities. The sheets have wrapped around his waist, allowing his back and legs to be on display as he is adorably nuzzled against the fluffy pillows. Part of me wants to relish in how oddly adorable he looks, but then I realize that despite how sweet he looks right now he's capable of some very wicked things... wicked things that are tempting me a bit too strongly right now.

But then I remember how we left things last night; how he'd agreed that we were "just fucking." I'm still not sure why I'm suddenly having this twisted emotional reaction to him, but one thing's for certain: touching him again is a bad idea. I've indulged myself enough. I've had my little sexual fantasy weekend, and now it's time to return to the real world.

I grab my clothes from the floor and pull them on as quietly as possible. I manage to sneak all the way to the door before Blaine stirs.

"Kurt?" he says, still half asleep. I'm tempted to make a run for it, but Blaine seems to realize what's going on right as my fingers touch the handle. "Where are you going?" He sits up and eyes me warily. "Are you leaving?"

I try not to notice the sexy way that lock of dark hair falls across his forehead. "It's stopped raining," I say.

"So?" He blinks and rubs some of the sleep from his eyes.

"They hopefully would have fixed the road by now or I can at least take the subway back," I remind him. "I need to get back. They need me at the Center." I watch comprehension sink in on his face.

"It's stopped raining," he says quickly, "but you still might not be able to leave here. You don't know that they've fixed the sinkhole or even the flooding out to Brooklyn. And you know the heavy rains can cause some of the subway stations to flood." This knowledge hits me like a punch to the stomach. I hadn't even considered that possibility. "I know it's a pain in the ass," he says, climbing out of bed. "But I can think of several fun ways we might pass the time." One look at his naked body as he stands up makes his meaning quite clear - he's not the only thing standing at attention at the moment. I quickly glance away.

"I'm not—I don't think that's the best idea. We've had some fun, but let's be realistic about this whole situation. Spending a couple of days holed up pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist is fine, but at some point we have to wake up and start living like normal people again." I can feel his eyes boring into me, but I refuse to look up.

"Very well," he says after a moment. "If that's what you want." I can't tell from his tone whether he's angry or disappointed or even if he cares at all. He turns and walks casually over to the closet, disappearing inside without another word.

I'm not sure what to do. Am I dismissed? Should I go back to my room? I need to call Will again and let him know I'll be here yet another night since I'm still unsure about the whole getting home situation. I hope he hasn't buried himself under an insane pile of work. I hope Adam isn't causing him any trouble.

I've just decided to leave when Blaine steps out of the closet, a towel around his waist. For all that he's covered now, the image still doesn't leave much to the imagination. I force myself to look him in the eye.

"I was thinking," he says, "that we might take advantage of the sun and have a look around the gardens. You seemed interested in them the other day."

My gut reaction is to say no, but honestly, what else am I going to do around here all day? Hiding out in my room won't solve anything. In fact, sitting around with nothing to do would leave me too much time to obsessively dissect these jumbled emotions I'm experiencing. Distracting myself with a giant hedge maze in the middle of the Upper East Side sounds a lot more pleasant, even if it means interacting with the object of my turmoil.

"All right," I agree.

Blaine smiles, and my stomach flutters. "Care to join me for a shower first?" he says. _God, would I ever. _But I shake my head. No more fooling around. I'm only going to end up hurt. The disappointment that flashes across his face is only satisfying for the briefest of moments.

"I prefer to shower on my own," I say, but it sounds like an excuse, even to me. "I'll just meet you after."

He nods, once, then disappears into his bathroom without another word. Part of me is tempted to follow him, to strip off my clothes and surprise him, but I push the thought aside. I need to control myself. I turn and leave the room quickly, before my resolve has the chance to waver.

* * *

An hour later, freshly showered and clothed in another lovely outfit from the closet, I meet Blaine in the garden. I called Will while I was getting dressed, and though he sounded as tired and flustered as ever, he was thrilled with the work Adam's done since I called him. He told me that Adam was at the Center all day yesterday, and that he'd already managed to elicit enough donations to get us through the month. He said he had every faith that my loathsome ex was exactly what we needed to turn things around. I didn't tell Will about all the calls and messages. I didn't want to spoil his mood. I haven't heard him this excited and hopeful in months.

Adam himself called me again this morning, but I let it go straight to voicemail. I'm shocked he hasn't gotten the hint by now, but that's Adam for you. He's determined, I'll give him that much. I leave my phone on my bed. Adam can disappear with the rest of my real-world problems. This morning is about the garden.

And _damn_, this is a fantastic garden.

Blaine leads me around the side of the building, and my breath catches in my throat when I see the garden open up in front of us. Sure, the storm knocked down some branches and leaves, but it hardly lessens the effect—this place is beautiful. I'm reminded of the impression I had when I first stood outside the gates: it's like some overgrown enchanted garden out of a fairy tale. Here, next to the house, someone has laid out the beds in an ornate diamond pattern. It's rare to see so much privately owned greenspace in New York City, but here a small plot sits in the middle of the Upper East Side, tucked away securely from view from the main street thanks to the buildings on either side of the plot. It looks like this garden serves the Andersons as well as the house on the other side, but it's obvious that the Andersons have done much of the maintenance since the gate to access the garden from their side is locked up and boarded; leaving the garden as the private space for the Anderson residence.

The beds themselves are wild with flowers—far more than I could ever identify—but I recognize asters and the chrysanthemums among the early-autumn blooms. The section closest to the house is full of herbs, and several small, flowering trees stand at the corners of the path. At the center, where all the beds come together, I spot a trickling stone fountain. It's a small fountain - it certainly has nothing on the one in Central Park - but it's still lovely in the post-storm light.

"This is... this is amazing." I look up to find Blaine watching me intently. He's clearly pleased by my reaction. "This is like something out of a storybook," I say, moving deeper into the garden. It's a cheesy sentiment, I know, but I feel a childish sort of excitement. I almost feel like a prince, wandering around a place like this.

I glance back over my shoulder at my dashing "prince." He smiles at me warmly, his whole face blooming. I quickly turn back around. There I go, getting caught up in silly romantic notions and forgetting why I'm even here in the first place. How much does it cost to maintain a garden like this? Probably a lot more than all of the Center's programs combined.

But I'm not supposed to be thinking about this anymore. I had my chance to win us the money, and I failed. _And I enjoyed that failure, too_, a voice in my head whispers.

By the time we reach the edge of the fountain, the glow of excitement has dimmed. Outside in the light of day, I'm confronted once again by the ridiculousness of my actions. What was I thinking, sleeping with him? How had I allowed myself to get so distracted, to forget why I came here, even for a minute? How can I look at him now, after everything that's happened, and be at all confused about my feelings for him? He's not a prince. He's a man who lives in excess while refusing to fulfill the pledge his family made to the Center. Having sex doesn't change that.

Blaine doesn't seem to notice my sudden shift in mood. He stands next to me at the edge of the fountain, looking down at the water. I myself look up at the stone sculpture that crowns the piece. It's a pair of horses, heads held high and tails flowing in an imaginary wind. Water spews out of the mouth of each of the stoic beasts, following a graceful arc into the pool below.

"My father had this fountain specially commissioned," Blaine says. "The one on the left was modeled after my brother's horse. The one on the right is mine. Rudolph, I called him. My brother Cooper and I used to pretend that some curse had turned them to stone and it was up to us to free them."

I want to smile, but I don't. "Rudolph? Like the reindeer?"

"He was a Christmas present," Blaine says with a shrug. "I wanted a reindeer, but my father said they couldn't survive outside the North Pole. I was pretty torn up over it, truth be told. But Rudolph is a great horse. The best I could ever ask for."

"Where is he now?" I say, glancing around. "Didn't you say you had stables here?" I've always loved horses. Maybe they could help lighten my mood again.

Blaine's smile falls from his face. "I sold him this past summer." He reaches down and runs his fingers along the surface of the water. The pool is murky from the recent rain, and a number of twigs and leaves have collected at the bottom. Sold it, like he sold the family's boat? Is this about his father, too?

"Why?" It's a dangerous question, but I ask it anyway. He looks back up at me, and for a moment I see it again, that sadness that he keeps buried away. Before I can stop myself, I'm reaching toward him, and my fingers brush against his cheek. He doesn't move. I lightly sweep a bit of hair away from his temple. I don't know what I'm doing, and I know I'm being foolish, but I can't bring myself to break his intense gaze.

"Why?" I ask again. This time my voice is no more than a whisper. I feel like I'm on the verge of something, like he's about to open up to me about whatever dark feelings he's been suppressing. His lips part slightly, and I give him another encouraging caress across his cheek.

"It's not important." He steps away from my touch. "Anyway, I'm too busy to properly care for a horse." He turns and begins to walk around the base of the fountain.

"Wait," I say. This is the closest he's come to opening up to me since I've been here. "Don't you—I mean, it _is _important, you know. You're clearly upset about selling him. I don't mind if you talk about it."

He pauses, but when he turns back toward me his face is carefully blank. "It doesn't really matter. Honestly. I've only ridden him a handful of times in the past few years. He's better off at his new home."

"I don't believe that. It's obvious you loved him. And you're here now. You could spend time with him again."

Blaine's eyes are cold. "I told you, I don't want to talk about it." He turns and starts down the path once more, but I catch up with him quickly.

"Well maybe you need to talk about it," I say. "He was important to you."

He stops and turns on me. "What do you know about any of it?" His glare is deadly, but I won't let him intimidate me.

I meet his gaze without flinching. "I know you have a lot of pain in you," I say. I know I'm treading on dangerous ground, but I press on anyway. "I know you're having a hard time dealing with your father's death. Your friend is on the other side of the world and you haven't even mentioned where your brother is in all this mess, your horse is gone. The only other person I've seen in this place is Martin, but unless I'm missing something, I don't think you're talking to him about any of this. You shouldn't keep these feelings bottled up. They'll eat you alive."

"Are you my therapist now?" he demands. "What, we fuck for a couple of days and suddenly you think you can see into my soul or something?" I stagger back, feeling like he's slapped me across the face. But he's not done. "You expect me to open up to you," he says, raking his hand through his hair, "but you're in such denial about your own baggage that you don't even realize that _you're _the one pushing away. That ex sure screwed you up something good."

"I was only trying to help," I murmur.

"You're not helping. What part of that don't you understand? We had some fun, that's it. I don't care about your life story, and I'm definitely not interested in sharing mine."

"Which is it, then?" I snap. "You're either pissed that I pushed you away or you're pissed that I dared to show you some concern. You can't have it both ways!"

"But you can? One minute you're upset that I won't talk about my father, and the next you're upset that I've presumed to ask you about your ex. You expect me to open up to you, but I'll be damned if you've shown me even a hint of what's going on in your own head."

"That's ridiculous. I've tried, time and again, to talk to you about the Center, and—"

"Ah, the Center! 'Center, Center, Center,' every five minutes. The Center's just an excuse. Can't you see that?"

"An _excuse_? For what?"

"For everything! You've buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you don't have to think about how you really feel or what you really want."

"So you're the therapist now? You have _no idea _what I want."

"Neither do you, apparently." After all my tumultuous feelings of the past few days, those words are the final straw.

"Forget it," I say. "Fuck it. I'm leaving. Fuck you, fuck this house, fuck the floods, fuck the sinkhole. I'm going home, and I don't care if I have to swim there or walk from here to Canarsie." I turn and storm up the path, back toward the door. I'll run in and grab my bag, and then I plan on getting as far away from this place as I can.

But just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, the universe decides to screw with me some more. I charge around the corner of the house, and I almost have an aneurysm when I see who's standing at the base of the steps of the building.

There, right next to one of those ridiculous stone lions, is Adam. He looks up and sees me before my brain can even begin to make sense of the situation.

"Kurt," he says, coming toward me. "Thank God." It's too much. It's all too much.

"What are you doing here?" I say. "What the hell, Adam?"

"I was worried about you," he says. He reaches me just as Blaine comes around the corner.

"Kurt. Forgive me, I didn't mean—" He comes to a complete standstill when he sees Adam standing next to me. "Who the hell are you?" Blaine says. His eyes flick between Adam and me. "What the hell is going on here?"

I glance back at my ex. "That's what I want to know." Adam's blue eyes are blazing, and the corners of his mouth are tight. I know this look. He's furious.

But this time his anger isn't directed at me. One glance at Blaine and I know I need to do something—fast —before I end up in the middle of a fistfight.

"What are you doing here, Adam?" I say. "I never told you where I was. I didn't tell anyone, not even Will."

He still won't look at me. His eyes are locked on the master of the house. "You wouldn't answer my calls," he says.

"I had nothing else to say to you. Will would have given you all the information you needed."

"I was worried, babe." He moves toward me, but I step back. Calling me "babe" is not the way to speak to me right now... or ever.

"You haven't answered my question," I say. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought something had happened to you. I know you, Kurt. I knew you were up to something, and you wouldn't tell anyone where you were. For all I knew, you'd been kidnapped or something." His eyes narrow at Blaine.

"That's the stupidest excuse I've ever heard," I say. "And that doesn't explain how you found me."

"The phone company can track your cell," he says, his eyes still fixed on the man behind me. "You gave me your password, remember?"

I can only gape at him. I knew Adam was crazy, but this is a whole new level of creepy. "That was a year ago!" I say. "Did you seriously track me here? What's _wrong_ with you?"

"I told you, I was worried about your safety. Especially when I looked up the coordinates. If you'd told me, I'd have—"

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just didn't want to talk to you?" From the stunned expression on his face, I don't think it has. It's taking all of my self-restraint not to punch him. I open my mouth to argue, but suddenly Blaine stands between us, holding me back with one arm as he focuses his dark eyes on Adam.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're trespassing on my property. If you're not gone by the time I count to five, I'm calling the police."

Adam stares back at him steadily. Blaine doesn't seem to cower in the slightest under Adam's gaze. Adam has a few inches on Blaine, but Blaine looks as if he's going to tear Adam a new one. If this does dissolve into a fight, there's little doubt, I think, as to who has the advantage based purely on the rage fueling Blaine's actions.

But Adam's unwilling to back down. "Fine, call the police. I'll be sure to tell them how you kidnapped an innocent man and kept him trapped in your mansion."

"Stop being ridiculous, Adam," I say.

He tears his eyes away from Blaine and looks at me. His gaze drops to my hand, which I've unwittingly placed on Blaine's arm. "Who is this guy to you?" Adam asks me.

"He's certainly not a kidnapper."

"You told me you were trying to get money for the Center."

"I was. I _am._"

"Not here, you aren't."

I make an exasperated sound. "You worked with us for a year. You know how generous the Anderson family has been."

"Isn't this guy why the Center's in trouble in the first place?"

"I thought I might make a more convincing case in person."

Adam's eyes are steely. He still won't break Blaine's gaze. "And what sort of 'convincing' does this fucker require?"

Blaine's muscles tighten under my grip. "This is your final warning to get off my property," he says. "Or believe me, I will be pressing charges." Adam looks ready to leap at Blaine's throat.

"You may have struck a deal with my editor, but I'm tired of keeping my mouth shut. I'm not going to let you take advantage of Kurt."

"He's not taking advantage of me," I insist, but Blaine grips my arm.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get back inside. I'm calling the cops." He tries to nudge me toward the door, but Adam jumps in front of me and grabs me by the shoulders.

"How much money has he promised you?" he demands.

Blaine grabs Adam by the collar and yanks him away from me. "I swear, if you put another hand on him—"

"How much?" Adam demands even as he struggles against Blaine's grip. "How much, Kurt? He's a liar! He's a fucking liar! He doesn't have anything. The family's _completely broke_."

Blaine stiffens. For a moment I just stand there in shock. What? The Andersons are broke? That can't be right. Adam's trying to manipulate me. But there's a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I've never seen Blaine look so pale.

Suddenly he moves, arm flying, and his fist connects with the side of Adam's face. My ex flies backward.

"What are you doing?" I shriek.

But neither of them appear to hear me. Adam recovers quickly, scrambling to his feet and launching himself at Blaine. Blaine catches him around the shoulders, but Adam is quick. His fists connect with Blaine's side as the two wrestle against each other.

"Stop!" I say. "What the hell are you doing? Stop, now!" They ignore my pleas. "This is ridiculous!" I say. "Stop it!" But the two continue to batter each other. Blaine takes another swing at Adam's face, while Adam jabs his knee upward, hitting Blaine in the gut. I don't know what to do. There's no way I'm getting in the middle of those flying punches. Should I go get Martin? Find my cell and call the police? I turn and bolt up the stone steps. How the hell did this all blow up so fast?

"Wait—Kurt." I'm at the top step. When I turn, Blaine has Adam pinned to the ground. Blood drips from Adam's nose down a cheek that's already starting to swell. Blaine doesn't look much better. He has a split lip and his shirt is torn. Blaine holds Adam down by the upper arms. My ex's eyes are wild, furious—and I know that he'll throw another punch as soon as Blaine releases him. I hurry back down the steps.

"You're insane," I say. "Both of you. Does anyone actually have any idea what the hell is going on?"

"He was screaming at you," Blaine says. "Not to mention trespassing on my property. That's all I need to know." He tightens his grip, and Adam curses.

"Why the hell are you listening to him?" Adam tries unsuccessfully to twist out of Blaine's grasp. "He's a liar. I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I guarantee it's not what you think."

I wait for Blaine to rebut the accusation, but instead he only gives his opponent another shake. His face is full of storm clouds. My stomach twists as I step closer. "What's going on?"

"He's a liar," Adam says again. "The whole family's broke."

"Shut _up_," Blaine says. He looks ready to take another swing, so I rush forward and grab his arm, forcing him to turn and look at me. His gaze softens slightly, but not enough—and I know I'm not going to like what he has to say.

"What's going on?" I ask again.

"You better tell him," Adam says. "If you won't, then I'll—"

"Stay out of this, Adam," I snap. I turn back to Blaine. His eyes are pleading with me, and I know I'm about to have the rug ripped out from beneath me. "Tell me," I say, so softly I can hardly hear it above Adam's ragged breathing. Blaine's gaze darts away, and he lets out a long breath.

"Kurt..."

"Tell me." He tenses under my hand, and I can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath the thin skin of his inner elbow.

"I inherited some financial difficulties," he says finally.

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to process everything that this means. "Is that why you broke your father's pledge to the Center?" I ask.

His dark eyes bore into me, begging me for understanding. "It wasn't just the pledge," he says. "I've broken a number of other contracts, too, and I've started selling—"

"Does this mean you never intended to give us the money? That all those promises and all those games were—were what? Just a _ruse_? Just enough incentive to get me to... to..." I glance down at Adam, who's near purple with fury.

"What the _hell_ happened here?" he says, struggling again against Blaine's hold. "What the fuck did he do?"

I don't respond. I feel as if someone has dunked me in cold water.

"Kurt," Blaine pleads. "If you would let me explain..."

"No," I say, releasing his arm. "No. I'm done. With both of you." I turn and bolt up the steps before either can stop me. Someone calls my name, but I don't care who. I can't bear to look at either of them right now.

I know my way to my room at this point. I grab my things and fumble in my bag for my keys. I refuse to stay here a moment longer. I can't believe I allowed myself to be so easily fooled, that I believed Blaine's lies even for a minute. When I return outside, Blaine is halfway up the stairs. Adam is dragging himself to his feet behind him.

"Kurt," Blaine says, "if you'd just let—"

"No." I push past him. "If Adam made it here, then the roads and bridges must be okay by now. I'm leaving."

Adam grins at my announcement. He thinks he's won. "Come on," he says, taking my arm. "Let's get out of here."

I jerk away from him. "Don't touch me. I don't want to talk to you, either."

"Kurt, I didn't—"

"ENOUGH." I shove him aside and march down the driveway. If either one of them comes after me, I swear, I'll punch him in the face. When I get to the gates, I find them locked. Adam must have climbed over them like I did. I can't believe that one stupid, reckless decision turned out like this. My ex's Jeep is parked behind my beat up car, and I give his front tire a kick before diving into my own car.

And that's when I lose it. As soon as I crank the gas, the tears begin to spill over. I keep replaying the entire thing in my head: the argument I had with Blaine in the garden, Adam's unexpected arrival, the subsequent fight. The realization that Blaine has been lying to me this entire time. It's a disaster, this whole situation. How the hell do I attract such assholes?

But no, that's not fair—I brought all of this upon myself. I called Adam when I knew I shouldn't have. I gave into my attraction when I knew Blaine was no good for me. I can't blame them for being themselves.

The worst part is that there's no hope for the Center now. My tears are coming so hard that I have trouble seeing the road. I force myself to slow down. The last thing I need is to crash my car out here and rely on one of those idiots to save my ass.

When I get to where I need to cross over into Brooklyn, I notice the tunnel lights out and I can see that there are some dangling wires causing the tunnel to be completely black. Not only that, but the overflow of water has caused a sinkhole-sized puddle to take root in the middle of the typically busy Manhattan street. Great. There are no cones to block the way, but I know it's hardly 100% safe in there.

Adam was fine in his Jeep, but I'm not sure my crappy old Honda can survive that much water. She's on her last legs already, and I certainly don't have the money for repairs. I don't have money for a tow, either, or to call a cab since no cab will drive me to Canarsie in the first place; let alone after the storm we just went through. I pull over, park, and lay my head against the steering wheel, nearly hyperventilating.

I feel so... empty. Like I sold my soul and have nothing to show for it. I dig my nails into the vinyl of the steering wheel and force myself to count down from ten. By the time I reach one, I've managed to breathe normally again.

_This is just a setback_, I tell myself. _There's still plenty you can do for the Center. Don't let one bad weekend destroy all of your hope._

Easier said than done. All the hope in the world won't make me feel any less horrible about these last few days. I can't believe that I fell for Blaine's lines, or that I thought I could handle Adam in my life again, even in some small capacity. I'm an idiot all around. I need to get as far away from these dipshits as possible before I'll even be able to think straight again.

I look at the water in the road and down the island to other routes to Brooklyn. "What do you think?" I ask my Honda. "Up for the challenge?" I give her an encouraging pat on the dash, and then I crank her into gear.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three days later, I'm helping out in one of the Center's art classes. Marie, who usually leads the children's programs, is out sick. I suspect we'll lose her to another job in the near future anyway.

I lean over the shoulder of one of our regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. We're working with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress. "It's a garden, Mister Kurt," she says. "Like the one in my book."

"It's beautiful. You've been practicing, haven't you?"

She beams at the compliment. "Look, those are the roses," she says, pointing them out. "And these are the daisies and these are the tulips. And here's the cat. He likes to sit next to the fountain."

I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and I'd thought it was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen. But I'm not supposed to be thinking of that. Or him. "It's beautiful," I tell her again. She grins and picks up her brush once more, and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her. "And what are you painting, Ben?"

He shows me his artwork, which features a T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile. "That's awesome!" I say. I give him a high five. Although it was something a young Kurt Hummel would never draw, I can appreciate how a young Finn would and I realize just how much I've missed him in the hubbub of everything in the past few weeks and months.

I remember when Ben first started attending classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and "for girls." Now, though, he's often the first one diving into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to literally drag him away from the table at the end of the session. Yet another thing to remind me of Finn - and yet another reason that I know that a place like this is necessary to turning kid's lives into something where they'll bloom and grow and become unprejudiced, accepting, wonderful people that an education in the arts can bring.

I look around the room. Ben's story isn't unusual around here. The Brooklyn Center has impacted the life of every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages besides. What will happen when this place is gone? It's not that I believe they won't explore other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time —but how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?

I return to the front of the room and sit down to watch the children work. I'm exhausted. I've spent every night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm some magic solution to our monetary problem. I've been here every morning at seven, and I've taken to the phones as early as it's socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. I've tried begging, I've tried offering incentives— everything I can think of. But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as much as they can. In this economy, I'm grateful for everything we can get, but it's just not enough.

I sigh. There's no way around it. I know Will is hesitant to even consider it, but I think we're going to have to cut back significantly on our program offerings if we're going to hold on. We've done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the pledge we would have received from the Andersons. And fundraisers require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but we're low on those, too.

I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the Center's problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend. Adam's called several times since I left him back at the Anderson estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Blaine hasn't tried to contact me at all.

But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway? We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me, and that's not something I can forgive easily.

His accusations still haunt me. The Center is just an excuse. You've buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you don't have to think about how you really feel or what you really want.

Is that true? I've sacrificed a lot for this place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even deeper interest in the emotional well-being of the people I care about; the kids, the staff, and Will. True, I've thrown myself even deeper into the Center's affairs since Adam and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor. It's my passion, but that doesn't mean I can't emotionally invest in other things, too.

Except when it comes to Blaine. How could I even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Center's current situation? I think that's a fair reason to hold back from him. But I'm not supposed to be thinking about him. I need to focus on the Center right now.

"Kurt?" When I glance up, Will is standing in the doorway. "Is everything okay?" he asks, pulling up a chair beside me. "You've seemed a little preoccupied since you've been back."

I force a smile. "I'm fine. Just trying to figure out a way to get us out of this."

He watches me for a moment. "No. I think it's something else." I look down at my lap. He was always really good at reading me. It must be some super-sense or something. Thank god this man is not my father; a Burt Hummel with this level of astuteness would be dangerous in a world where Kurt Hummel does things... rather, people like Blaine Anderson.

I've been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I confessed to him that I hadn't been able to secure any more money, he was so completely crestfallen that I couldn't bear telling him the rest of the truth. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Will, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I went to see Blaine Anderson, even though you asked me not to. And oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while I'm making confessions, I don't think Adam will be helping us out after all. I'm ashamed even now of my behavior.

Just seeing the hope and trust in my boss' eyes makes me sick to my stomach. "What's going on?" he prompts. "You can tell me."

That's just it, though. I'm not sure I can. There's no way I'm telling Will about everything that went on this weekend. Sometimes Will crosses the line into this friendship territory despite being my boss, but there's even some things our friendship can't have - a major one being any sort of clue into my sex life. There is one thing I can talk to him about, though. "I don't want Adam helping us. I know he found us some money, and I'm grateful for that, but I can't do it. And I promise I'm not being petty. If it were just old feelings I'd suck it up for the sake of the Center. But he's..." How much can I say without worrying him? "He's done some things this past week that have made me very uncomfortable."

Will considers this a moment. "I understand," he says finally. "I knew it would be hard on you. It wasn't fair of me to ask that in the first place." He glances around the room. "Sometimes I get so caught up in this place that I forget the important things."

"It's not—you had no way of knowing," I say quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. "If it were anyone else, I'd just deal with it. But Adam..."

"What has he done? Something I should know about?"

I take a deep breath. "He thought me asking him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If you knew how many times he's called me, what he's said..."

"He's been harassing you?" Harassing. I remember how Blaine accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am I really any better than Adam, in the end?

"It's just caused more problems than it will help," I reply diplomatically.

"I'll call him and tell him we won't be needing his assistance," Will says. It only makes me feel a little better. I haven't seen him here at the Center since I've returned, but I know this isn't over yet. But I don't tell Will how uneasy I am, how I've been a jumble of nerves these past few days.

"Thank you," I say simply. Will nods and turns back to watching the children.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create. When he does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all. "When do we give up?" I look at Ben, who's adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, who's painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers.

I reach over and grab Will's hand. "Never," I answer, just as quietly. "Not until the very end. Not until they make us."

* * *

It's a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I've been using to help me sleep.

_Dearest Mr. Hummel, _

_I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. I'll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter. _

_As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. I'm deeply sorry if I misread the situation. Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation. _

_Sincerely, Blaine Anderson _

There's no lawyer's signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. He's just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses. I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology? The real question, though, is why he would send such a letter in the first place. There's no call to action at the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means to contact me again. There's no mention of our argument in the garden, either.

Was this just a way to assuage his guilty conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasn't at fault for this entire situation? I'll admit I should have paid attention to the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of security and other employees. And Blaine told me himself about selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems obvious now, but that doesn't relieve him of his mistakes.

Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it still hurts. It's my own fault for letting my feelings get involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesn't lessen the sting. And there's the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I did feel something when I was with him. I don't want to admit it, but I've been waiting for him to contact me. I've always thought myself a very reasonable person, but even though I know it's ridiculous, I've been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to end all apologies.

Every day that's gone by without word from him has been a torture. But when did I become one of those men who agonize over the fact that a man hasn't called? Blaine and I agreed that what happened between us was only physical. We're not dating. We're certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start feeling things I shouldn't, but that's my own fault. I can't expect him to suddenly change his emotions because I can't seem to control my own.

It's a mess, this whole thing. And at the end of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping that he's in as much agony as I am, that he's just as disturbed by the fact that I haven't called him. I'm pathetic, that's what I am. Which is why this letter is so painful. This letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue.

Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each other. I'll be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me again. Life goes on, I tell myself. I'm not done with my tea yet, but I don't care. I open the trashcan once more and flip the rest of my drink on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out and read it again.

* * *

A week later, I'm standing in the Center's gallery. It's nothing like the elaborate room in the Anderson mansion, but I've always been proud of the space. The walls feature work from local artists of all disciplines, including several names that have been popping up in collectors' circles. There's also a corner dedicated to pieces created by our students—everything from the finger-painting masterpieces of the preschoolers to the charcoal drawings produced in one of our master classes.

I stroll down the length of the room, alternately admiring the artwork and surveying the space. We use this room for a number of our classes and larger events. And every February, of course, it's turned into a proper ballroom for our Art & Hearts fundraiser. Every year at the event, guests come up to Will and I and compliment the space. It's amazing what some well-placed decor and appropriate lighting can do for a room. I stop in the center of the floor and turn around. Given the right amount of attention, you could do a lot of things in here.

The idea hits me hard and suddenly. I turn once more, taking it all in. How the hell did I not think of this before?

I rush to find Will. He's in his office, of course, bent over a stack of invoices. "Will," I say, out of breath. He glances up, his eyebrows quirked quizzically. "The gallery," I say. "I was thinking—can we rent it out? For events?"

He sets down his pen, thinking. "That's an idea."

"Think about it. It's a large space, and it's easy to adapt and decorate. We have a lot of flexibility over the lighting and layout. We have tables and chairs we can include as part of the rental fee. We have the retractable stage we use for recitals—"

"And a decent sound system," he says, nodding now. "And I'm assuming most events are on the evenings and weekends, when we aren't using the room anyway."

"We can black out any dates we have recitals or gallery shows. It's a fun, unusual space, I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who want a unique alternative to a hotel ballroom or something."

There's light in my boss' eyes now. He's as excited about the idea as I am. "I'm going to research some logistics," he says. "And I need you to start brainstorming a marketing plan. If we're going to do this, we need some quick turnaround time. Figure out how we're going to get the word out there. And come up with a few general layout plans for the room. We need some templates to show people who might be interested in using the space."

This is the Will I've missed, the one who disappeared when the bills started piling up. This is the man who started the Center, who helped an entire community grow and flourish beneath his hands. There's life in his eyes again, the spark of determination.

"Of course," I say. "I'll have something for you by the end of the day." I turn and hurry down the hall to my office. This is it—this is our chance. If we can pull this off, we might just survive this financial ordeal.

The Brooklyn Center for the Arts will live to see another day, and we'll do it without relying on the generosity of people like Blaine Anderson. The thought of him makes me pause, even now. It's been days since I got his letter, and I still can't get it out of my mind. I still look through my mail a little too eagerly at night, hoping against my better judgment that he's sent something else. Every time the phone rings, or even when an email pings in my inbox, I find myself yearning for some point of contact. But there's only been silence from Mr. Anderson.

It's better this way, I tell myself. I need to get over him. I need to focus on the Center right now. But I don't feel like I have any closure. Blaine never explained the full truth in his letter. I still have no idea why the family is broke, or what this means for Blaine and his sister. Adam apparently caught wind of the matter through his work, but there's no way I'm calling and asking about it. He mentioned that Blaine struck a bargain with his editor, which means that the entire thing has been carefully covered up. The media loves a good scandal. If people find out the Andersons were struggling financially, the press will have a field day. I confess that in my weaker moments I've tried searching online for rumors or snippets of information, but apparently Blaine is great at damage control. I haven't been able to find anything.

I just hope he and his brother are all right. I remember the way his eyes sparkled as he showed me around his house. He loves that place. And why shouldn't he? It's been in his family for decades. Every brick, every room, every piece of furniture has a story behind it, a memory tied to it. Just because the place is ostentatious and oversized doesn't mean it can't carry the same emotional meaning as any other home. Because that's what it is, at the end of the day—his home.

Shit. All this time I've been thinking about what Blaine could do for me. I was literally calculating prices in my head when he was giving me his tour, imagining how I might put that money to better use.

Who am I to judge how someone uses their money? Why am I entitled to anything he owns? I remember the sadness in his eye when he confessed that he sold his horse Rudolph. How many other things will he have to sell to settle his family's finances, if things are indeed that bad? It all seems so obvious now, but I was blind to it all at the time because I was only thinking about myself and what I wanted.

I lean my forehead on my hand. I suddenly feel terrible for the way I've behaved. No wonder Blaine hasn't contacted me again. All this time I've been pissed at him, thinking he lied so he could use me for sex, while the entire time I've only been after his money. But not anymore. If there's one good thing that's come out of this situation, it's that I was forced to come up with the solution on my own. If the Center survives, it will be by the hard work of myself and Will, not because some billionaire took pity on our situation. I turn back to the paper spread out on my desk and pick up my pen. I'm already bursting with ideas, and I want to show Will that we can do this. It's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: We're in the final two chapters of this story! And, as a reminder, there is a SEQUEL that I will be working on starting in June. I have too much work stuff in May to commit to publishing anything this month, but hopefully in June we'll be on track! Enjoy this latest installment!_

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

_TWO MONTHS LATER_

"What do you think?" I ask Will.

We're standing at the doorway of the gallery, surveying the hard work of the last few days. I was up half the night draping fabric from the ceiling and setting up tables, but the result is, in my opinion, absolutely beautiful. I knew all of those years redecorating my room would pay off somehow. And my dad said all of those boards on Pinterest with home decor ideas would be a waste.

"It's wonderful," Will says. He's beaming, and I swear he hasn't looked this hopeful in at least a year.

Tonight is our very first event since opening up the gallery for rentals. A couple is celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, and they wanted the whole package: decor, tables and chairs, even use of the temporary dance floor we put down for our ballet and jazz classes. The check from tonight will fund our afterschool program for the rest of the month.

And it's not the only event we have scheduled this month. Next weekend we're hosting a Bar Mitzvah, and two weeks after that an awards ceremony for a local private high school. Assuming everything goes smoothly, I hope word of mouth will draw in even more events in the future. I've also been working furiously on a marketing plan when I haven't been bouncing between my normal duties.

Will wraps his arm around me and hugs me from the side. "I'm so thankful for you, Kurt."

I smile. It's a little too soon to say for certain, but it looks like we might dig ourselves out of our hole in the near future. I'm sure there will be plenty of kinks to work out over the coming months, but we've bought ourselves time, and that's the most important thing right now.

"You should go home and get some sleep," he tells me. "You've been overworking yourself these last few days."

I hate to admit it, but he's right. I'm exhausted, and I'm running on adrenaline fumes right now. Last night I didn't even bother going home. I just curled up on the old sofa in Will's office.

"Go on," he urges, and I know from his expression that he won't accept any excuses.

I grab my bag from the office and head outside to my car. Party guests are already starting to trickle in, and I wave as I make my way across the parking lot. For the first time in a long time, I feel at peace. Exhausted, but at peace.

And then I see who's leaning against the side of my Honda. "Adam?" He glances up when he hears my voice. "What are you doing here?" I say.

"Some welcome," he replies, straightening. "I just came by to see how you're doing."

"Adam, I—"

"Don't do this. You've been ignoring my calls, so I wanted to give you some space, but I'm not going to let you cut me off again."

I cross my arms. "I'm not having this conversation with you right now. Get out of my way."

Instead of moving, he leans back against the car, blocking my path to the driver's seat. "You mean a lot to me, Kurt, you know that. I'm just trying to look out for you."

"I don't need you to look out for me. Now move or I'm calling the police."

"Did Anderson tell you he had me arrested? I was just trying to make sure he wasn't taking advantage of you, and somehow I was the one who ended up in jail overnight. You don't still speak to that fucker, do you?"

I'm trying to control my anger, but I can't help myself. "Whether I talk to Blaine or not is none of your business," I say. "And it's your own fault for ending up in jail. You shouldn't have been there."

His eyes darken. "I can't believe you're defending him," he says, stepping toward me. "He's no good, Kurt. You need to stay away from him."

"Again, that's none of your business." I fumble in my purse for my cell. "Get out of here, Adam, or I swear I'll—"

He leaps toward me and grabs my arms, pulling me toward him. "Please, Kurt," he begs, the anger suddenly gone from his voice. "Please. Let's just go somewhere and talk for a while. I know I've made some mistakes. I know I've hurt you. But things are different now. Please, just come with me."

I try to twist out of his grip. "Let me go."

"No," he says, pulling me closer. "I'm not letting you go until you agree to give me another chance. After everything we've been through together, I think you owe me that."

"I don't owe you anything!" His grip on my arms tightens to the point of pain. He shakes me.

"Don't do this to me, Kurt. I love you. I always have. And you love me, too."

"No," I say, and then I slam my heel onto his foot. He loosens his hands, and I take the opportunity to escape from his grip. "Stay away from me," I say. "I don't love you, and I don't want you in my life anymore."

His eyes flash. He's angry now. "You don't know what you're talking about," he says.

"I do. Now get out of my way."

"No." He lunges for me again, and this time I swing my bag at him, knocking him in the head. I don't carry my bag like a purse - it's a bag with a purpose and in this case it has my laptop in it. It must've hurt since Adam winces and grabs his head after impact. I don't feel a bit guilty about hitting him with my bag; no means no, you dick.

"What the fuck, Kurt?!" he cries.

"Get the hell away from me," I say. "If you come near me again, if you try to call or contact me in any way, then I swear I'll have you arrested. We're over." I push past him and dive into the driver's seat of my car, but he reaches after me and tries to drag me back outside. "Let me go!" I try to swing my bag at him again, but it's too cramped. He has me halfway onto the pavement before I manage to jab my elbow up and hit him in the nose. He yowls and releases me, and I leap back into the car and slam the door behind me.

He's still screaming at me, even as I pull out of the parking spot. "Fuck you, Kurt!" he says. "I saved you from that guy! I fucking saved you!" I turn on my radio and crank it up, drowning out his words.

I don't go home. I go straight to the courthouse and apply for a restraining order. It won't be official until we're in front of a judge, but I'm hoping that being served with the paperwork will be enough to scare Adam away in the meantime.

Afterward I'm still too jumpy to go to my apartment, so I drive around for a while. This is when I really wish I had a couple of good friends in town. I've been too focused on the Center these last couple of years to have much of a social life. I could call up one of the people who work at the Center with me, but I don't want this getting back to Will. I don't want to worry him or distract him from making sure everything runs smoothly at the party tonight.

Eventually I pull into a fast food restaurant. I order myself a value meal and sit eating it in the parking lot. I can tell the day has been traumatic if I'm willingly eating a cheeseburger from some greaseball restaurant in Brooklyn but I can't will myself to care.

I'm halfway through my cheeseburger before I lose my resolve and pull out my phone. I can't help it —I need to tell someone about what just happened. I know I'm breaking every rule I set for myself, but I want to talk to Blaine. I should be stronger than this, but I crave the reassurance that I did the right thing, that I'm not at fault for Adam's insanity.

A call is too personal. Instead, I text.

_You were right about Adam. I applied for a restraining order._

I pause for a minute. There's so much I want to say to him, but I don't know how to say it. I don't know, after all this time, whether he wants to hear it at all. Finally, I take a deep breath and add:

_Forgive me for not respecting your decision about the pledge. I hope you and your brother are doing well._

I send it off before I can change my mind.

My cheeseburger is cold by the time I pick it up again. I munch on it absentmindedly. I move to the fries next, though they're soggy at this point. Only when I finish those and there's still no reply to my text do I accept that I probably won't be hearing back from Blaine anytime soon.

_It doesn't matter_, I tell myself. _I said what I needed to say._

But did I? I've been thinking more about our argument in the garden. He told me I was using the Center as an excuse, and I realize now that he was right. I told myself that I engaged in his little games for the sake of the Center, but if I'm being honest, that's not the truth at all. I played along because I wanted to. Because I wanted him.

But that's too much to convey in a text message. And I'm not sure he'd want to hear it at this point anyway.

I take a deep breath and crumple up the food wrappers. I don't blame him, truly I don't. He has bigger things to deal with than our non-relationship. I only wish that thought made me feel better.

It's 11 PM when my phone goes off. I've been in bed for an hour, but as usual I'm having trouble falling asleep. When I hear the text message tone, I roll over and grab my cell off the nightstand.

The message is from Blaine.

I almost delete it without reading it. Texting him this afternoon was a mistake. There's no reason to torture myself by trying to analyze his response. It won't change anything between us; it will only prolong this pathetic state I'm in.

But I cave to the temptation, of course. I open the text.

_Are you okay?_

I stare at it for a long time, trying to decide how I should respond—or even if I should respond at all —but my text tone goes off again before I've made my decision.

_I've been worried about you._

I'm not sure if he's being genuine, or just polite, but I respond anyway.

_I'm fine now, _I text.

His reply comes quickly. _What happened? Do I need to come over there?_

My heart stutters at the offer. I want to say yes. I want him to come over and make me feel safe again. I want to look him in the eyes and apologize for my insensitivity. I want to share the Center's success with him, and I want him to share his pain with me. And then I want him to take me in his arms and make me forget about everything else for a little while.

But I know it's a bad idea.

_I'm okay_, I text.

His response is immediate: _Are you sure? _

_Yes. _I reply, and leave it at that.

It's better this way. He doesn't answer, and I sigh and put the phone back on my nightstand. I'm just drifting off to sleep again when his next message comes through.

_Come out to the estate tomorrow._

What?

I sit up in bed and flip on the light. I read the text three more times before I accept the fact that yes – that is what he's asking. He wants me to come back to his house; back to the scene of the weekend I've been trying my damnedest to forget.

How do I reply to his offer?

I set my phone down on the nightstand and lie back on my pillow. I want to see him. But I also know, deep down, that I'm only dragging out the heartbreak. How, at the end of the day, do I really expect this to end?

I flip off my light without responding. Let him sweat for a while. Maybe in the morning I'll see things a little more clearly.

In the end, though, this new development only makes it harder to fall asleep. And when I do eventually drift off, I find that I dream only of him.

* * *

I wake to a knock at my door.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I roll over and rub my eyes. Isn't it a little early for visitors? My cell reads 9:13 AM, far earlier than I'd like to get up on a Saturday morning after a night of restless sleep.

The knock sounds again, and I groan.

"Go away!" I yell at the unwanted guest. This crappy apartment is tiny enough—and the walls thin enough—that I have no doubt he or she hears me.

It's only then that I remember the events of yesterday and the encounter with Adam in the parking lot. I flip open my phone. "You better get out of here," I say. "I'm calling the police."

But it's not Adam's voice that answers me—it's _Blaine's_. "Kurt. Can I talk to you?" I scramble out of bed. What's he doing here?

"Just a minute!" I say. I look frantically around the room for something—anything—that isn't the hole-filled Hummel Tires & Lube shirt and basketball shorts I'm currently wearing. I can't believe he would just show up at my apartment. Doesn't he have bigger things to worry about? I haven't heard from him in two months. Did my texts last night really trigger some change of heart? Please, I couldn't have really had that kind of impact on a man like Blaine Anderson.

I should probably send him away. I'm not sure I'm ready for this conversation yet; not just because it's far too early on a weekend, but also because I'm not emotionally ready to handle anything like this. I'm not even sure what I want to happen, what I want him to say. I was just starting to resign myself to the idea that I'd never see or hear from him again. He can't just show up like this. Not without giving me the chance to mentally prepare. I'm a man who likes to be prepared.

I find a pair of jeans draped over a chair and tug them on. I pull off my T-shirt, then grab a black tank top out of my top drawer and put that on in its place. But where's my comb? I scrabble around on my desk for something to pull through my hair, but in the end I just flit my fingers through my hair and hope for the best. Thankfully I hadn't showered last night so I'm hoping the residue of the hairspray from the day before will help any major bed head or fly aways that may have crept in during the night.

By the time I make it to the door, I'm breathless and flushed.

"Good morning," I say with more energy than I feel. I look at the man who's caused me so much angst over the last few months.

_Damn_. I don't know how it's possible, but he's even sexier than I remember. He's let his hair get a little longer, the scruff a little thicker, and it's a good look for him. His eyes seem both darker and brighter all at once, and I feel that familiar tugging in my belly. I reach out and prop my hand on the doorframe, trying to look more confident and steadier than I feel.

"Kurt," he says. His voice is smooth as silk and thick as velvet, and I imagine that I can feel it on my very skin.

"Yes?" My own voice is high and thin.

"May I come in?" I move wordlessly aside. He steps inside, brushing against me as I pass. My heart flutters in my chest. I can't believe that after all these months I still react so strongly and so suddenly to his nearness. My apartment only has two "areas": the kitchen/living area and where the bed was. Studio apartments were slightly bigger in Brooklyn, but that didn't mean I owned a massive apartment. And I know better than to lead him into my bedroom, so I usher him into the kitchenette.

"Would you like anything? Coffee?" I begin fiddling with my crappy coffeemaker. My hands are shaking as I peel off a new filter. I feel Blaine's eyes on my back the entire time.

"Is it all right that I'm here?" he says quietly. I look up in surprise. "I mean, you didn't answer my text," he says. "I don't want to intrude. If you don't want me here, just say the word, and I'll leave." I stare at him for a long moment, shocked by the genuine concern I see in his features.

"You're not intruding." I ram a few buttons on the coffeemaker. "But I would like to know why you're here in the first place."

He runs his hand through his hair. "I just..." He sighs. "I just wanted to explain."

The coffeemaker starts burbling, and I turn to face him. I'm not sure whether I should sit or stand, so I lean against the back of the chair.

"What do you need to explain?"

His gaze on me is dark, intense. "Everything." Oh. This is definitely a conversation where I need to sit. I pull out the chair and sink down. My feet brush against his beneath the table, and he doesn't move away. "I'll admit, I was surprised to get your text yesterday. Pleasantly surprised. I didn't expect to hear from you ever again."

I tug at the hem of my tank top. "I just wanted you to know that I'd taken your advice."

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I'm glad you texted." His thumb slides across the back of my hand. "I've been thinking..." He trails off, and for a brief moment I think he's expecting me to finish his sentence, to know exactly what he's here to say. I don't dare take a guess. "I want to talk about the money. And why I lied." He tightens his grip on my fingers. "My father..." His eyes search my face. "My father was a good man, in many ways, as I'm sure you know. He loved me and my brother. He gave a lot of money to a lot of worthy causes."

He sighs. "But he had a number of problems, too. He was too trusting, too gullible. He made a number of terrible investments and allowed himself to be caught up in a couple of financial disasters. He did his best to cover it up, of course, and he hid most of it from me and Cooper, too. We didn't realize the extent of his financial problems until after he died."

He looks so sad, so emotionally exhausted, that I feel like my heart is going to burst. I squeeze his fingers encouragingly. He gives a small smile.

"And so I've spent the last several months trying to set things right. I've laid off most of our family's employees—except the lawyers, of course, though they'll soon be gone, too. And I've kept Martin as long as I could, since he's been with us so long. I've been working with an auction house to catalog a lot of our things, as well as a realtor to list the house inconspicuously."

The coffeemaker dings behind me, but I ignore it. "So you have to sell everything?" Blaine nods.

His fingers jerk through his hair again. "Most of it, if I want to cover all his debts. It's—it's a mess. I've been elbow-deep in this for months now." He glances up at me. "Which is why I was so pleased when you showed up and offered a most delightful distraction."

"Have you thought about renting the house or making it a hotel; like a B&B or something?" I ask. "You could at least live there even if you had to share your residence with people for some time. I'm sure people would pay well to stay in a place like this." My industrious side that seems to have surfaced thanks to the financial problems at The Center can't help but wonder if there's some kind of alternative that would allow Blaine to stay in the place that held so many memories for us.

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately, no. I'd have to front too much money in the upstart to get something like that off the ground - not to mention the fact that the building isn't permitted to be a hotel; it's in the guidelines of the street. I could petition to have it changed, but that would require hiring a lawyer to represent the change and it could take months or even years to get it changed.

"I've thought about it all, but nothing is sustainable enough for it to start generating money immediately and with the amount of debt left by my father, I can't let it acquire any more interest. I just have to let it go."

I don't know what to say to this, either, so I just look down at our interlinked hands. "I shouldn't have misled you though," he says. "It was never my intention. But I got caught up in it all. I wanted to keep you around. You wanted the money, and that was all I had to entice you to play along with me. It was wrong, I know, but I was a desperate man. You were the first bright spot in my life after months of dealing with wills and debts and the legal muddle my father left. I'm sorry."

I frown. His apology seems genuine, but I'm still not sure what to make of all this. "I understand what you're saying," I tell him, "but I still can't figure out why you're here now."

He pulls his hand away from mine. Suddenly he seems awkward, too formal. "First of all," he says, "I wanted to make sure you're okay. What happened with Adam? Did he hurt you?" I don't want to get into this, not after he's laid out so many of the other things that formerly stood between us. But I don't want to lie to him, either.

"I thought he might. He scared me. But I haven't seen him since. He's intense, but I don't think he'll violate a restraining order."

Blaine doesn't look as if he believes me. His jaw is set, his shoulders rigid. "I swear, if he lays a hand on you—"

"He won't. I won't let him."

Blaine doesn't look so sure. "I'll act as a witness if you need one. At the very least I'll go to the hearing with you."

His concern stirs something in me, and I reach over and grab his hand again. "This is the first time you and I have seen each other in months. Do we have to talk about Adam?"

His eyes darken, and he twists his hand to tighten his fingers around my own. "You're right," he says. "I have more important things to say. I need to formally apologize. For everything. The letter I sent wasn't nearly enough. I've wanted to talk to you for so long. I've been thinking about you ever since you stormed away from me that day. But I didn't think you wanted to hear from me, and the longer I went without hearing anything from you, the more I believed it.

"I sent the letter in desperation one day when I couldn't take the guilt anymore. I tried to justify my horrible behavior to myself and to you, but in the end I'm afraid I just made everything worse. I thought about sending another letter, excusing the first, or calling you, or even just showing up here—but I didn't want to turn into another stalker ex-lover of yours."

I force a half smile.

"Your text message gave me hope," he continues. "I wanted to see you again, to explain everything. When I didn't get a response, I—I couldn't sleep last night, thinking about it. I knew I'd go crazy if I couldn't talk to you. And so I came here."

I look at him across the table. No one, seeing his face right now, could doubt his sincerity. I want to forgive him, I do, but there's more we have to settle. "I need to apologize to you, too," I say. "I've realized since I left you how selfishly I behaved, demanding that money from you. If I'd have known—"

"It's not your fault you didn't know," he interjects. "It's mine. I had a dozen chances to tell you."

"Still, I should have respected your decision. And I shouldn't have judged you without knowing the full story." I look down again at our hands, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze. "I just want you to know, that—that everything that happened between us... it wasn't about the money. You were right. The money was just an excuse, a reason for me to, to..." I feel my cheeks go hot, and suddenly I don't want to be sitting at this table anymore. I try to stand, but Blaine keeps his grip on my hands and pulls me back down.

"And I want you to know," he says, his voice low and gravely, "that you weren't just a distraction for me."

I open my mouth to reply, but my response dies on my tongue beneath the intensity of his gaze.

"That's another reason I'm here," he says. "I wanted to see if maybe you would let me take you out sometime."

The question is so absurd after everything that's happened that I break out laughing. His face darkens, and I quickly rush to reassure him.

"I'm just surprised. I don't mean—I mean, I don't—I didn't..." My cheeks are on fire now, and I don't know where to look.

"Kurt." I force myself to look him in the eyes. My stomach is in knots, and I can feel my pulse beating in my ears. "You're allowed to say no," he tells me softly.

"No!" I say quickly. "I mean—no, I don't want to say no." The look on his face makes my heart swell in my chest. How does Blaine manage to look so effortlessly sexy while also being adorable when he gets what he wants? I'm torn between wanting to eat his face and just smiling giddily at him over a shared milkshake at some 50's diner.

Before I can say anything else, he stands and pulls me into his arms. "You don't know how happy you've made me." His hands reach around me and grab my waist solidly. I can't help but respond with my own arms tangled around his neck. "I know I'm not a sexy billionaire anymore, but I hope I have a few other redeeming qualities."

"Money or not, you're still sexy," I assure him. I gaze at him through my lashes.

He laughs and tugs me closer. "So I have a chance, then?"

"Perhaps."

His mouth finds mine, and heat rushes through me, as intense as it was two months ago. I could melt into him all over again, right here, right now. But he breaks away from me.

"Will you come out to the estate, just one last time? I'm almost done moving out, but there's something I want you to see first."

I look up at him. After everything that happened, I never expected him to show up at my door, much less ask to continue our little romance. I have no idea what will happen between us in the coming months, but I'm willing to take the chance on that sweet smile of his and that wicked gleam in his eye.

"Come on," I say, and give him another kiss. "I want you to show me everything."

* * *

The house looks different, now that most of the furniture and décor is gone. It's lifeless and dead, and I wonder if seeing it like this makes it harder or easier for Blaine to say goodbye.

He takes me straight to the gallery. This room, with its high, empty walls, looks even more desolate than the rest of the house. The ornate wallpaper has faded in patches, and it's clear that some of the artwork was here for years and years.

There's only one painting now, and it's leaning against the wall about halfway down the room. When we get closer, I see it's the Ludlam piece I admired the last time I was here.

"I didn't let them sell this one," Blaine says. "I want you to have it."

I gape at him. "I—I can't accept this."

"You can. I see the way you look at it. You love this painting, more than anyone who might buy it. It's yours."

"Blaine, I—"

"If you won't take it now, then I'll keep it with me until you're ready to take it. I'm not selling it. It belongs to you."

My eyes start to burn, and I turn away, not wanting him to see me tear up. He comes up behind me and gently rubs my shoulders. "You deserve it," he says softly. "For putting up with me, if nothing else. You don't have to keep it, if you don't want to. You could sell it and use the money to help the Center. It's not much, but I wanted to do something, after all this."

Something swells in my chest, and I turn and face him. How did I ever believe he was a selfish asshole? I reach out and brush my fingers along his cheek.

But that reminds me of something else.

"What about your favorite piece?" I say. "You didn't sell that one, did you?" I can't bear to think that he kept the Ludlam for me but gave up the painting he most admired.

He shakes his head, a small smile playing across his lips. "Don't worry," he says. "I couldn't part with that one, especially after the good fortune it brought me."

My face goes hot, both from my memory of the first time I viewed that painting and the way Blaine is looking at me now. "I kept a few other pieces, too," he says. "A couple of paintings my father loved, plus one for my brother. And the tusk with the carving of the whaling ship." He reaches out and cups the side of my face. "So you see, I already have all I need. The Ludlam belongs to you."

I open my mouth to protest, but I don't want to argue right now. Instead, I cover his hand with my own. "Thank you, for sharing all this with me." My eyes start to burn again, but this time I can't turn away.

"Thank you," he tells me, "for letting me share it."

I think I see the glimmer of tears in his own eyes, but before I can be sure, he leans forward and kisses me. It's not like the passionate kisses we've shared before. This one is tender, almost tentative, but my stomach flutters even more than it did during any of our previous encounters. I want to drown in the sweetness of his mouth, in the gentleness of his hands. I want to take on his pain and his grief and help him heal, but I don't know how.

I pull away, but only enough so that I can look him in the eyes. "Will you take me on one final tour? I want to see everything." He nods. It's strange to see him fighting for words, but I take his hand and squeeze it. I'm here with him now. I can help him say goodbye to this place.

We spend the next few hours wandering from room to room. Most of the furniture and décor is gone, but Blaine still has things to show me, stories to share. I hold his hand through all of it, and his grip on my fingers is tight, as if I'm anchoring him through this farewell.

Finally we head back outside to the garden. He seems to brighten a little now that we're out in the sun, and his hand relaxes.

"You know," I say as he leads me up the path. "I still haven't seen the labyrinth." The corner of his mouth curls up, and the wicked expression makes my heart beat faster.

"We should remedy that," he says, tugging me toward the back side of the house. A few minutes later we're standing next to a nearly six-foot expanse of dark green shrubbery. It's obvious that though the green area is small, the labyrinth is set up to have twists and turns and if either of us jump slightly, we'd be able to see each other over top of the hedges.

"Wow, you weren't kidding. This is rather impressive to come across in Manhattan." I reach out and touch one of the spiny green leaves. The branches are so thick that I can't see even a speck of sunlight from the other side. Blaine grins.

"It's easy to get turned around in there."

"I imagine," I say, tilting my head back and admiring the impressive height of the hedge. When I turn back to him, I find him watching me intently. "I'd like to propose a little game," I say.

His eyes darken. "Oh?"

I stroll ahead of him to the place where the hedge parts and the small labyrinth begins. "I'll go in first," I say, "and then you have to come find me."

His lips curl at the prospect. "What do I get if I win?" he asks, his voice rough.

"I think you can guess." I tug at the strap of my tank top, sliding it off my shoulder. Being back in this place is making me feel wild again. The look Blaine gives me in response is positively animal. "Count to twenty," I tell him, backing through the maze entrance. He makes a sound of assent, never taking his eyes from me. I flash him my best "come and get me" grin over my shoulder and disappear between the hedges. "No cheating!" I call back to him.

And then I break into a run. My heart is pounding in my throat as I rush down the dirt path. I don't know if Blaine really means to count to fifty, but I want to give him a good chase. Toying with him is half the fun. I'm out of breath by the time I reach the first fork. I pause for only the briefest of moments, and then I turn down the left-hand path. Just around the bend, I stop again and pull my tank top over my head. There's nothing wrong with helping him out a little. I hook the tank top over a branch of the nearest hedge and continue on my way. He could probably see me pretty easily over the hedges and the labyrinth isn't big enough for this game to really take long, but that doesn't really matter at this point. He's got me, I'm just keeping him entertained.

By the time I reach the next split in the path, I know Blaine has had plenty of time to finish counting. He'll be on my trail soon, if he isn't already. I kick off my shoes and leave them in the dirt at the head of the path I choose.

At the following fork, I shimmy out of my jeans. I'm laying them down on the ground when I hear Blaine's footsteps for the first time. He isn't far—on the other side of the hedge I just came around. I have to hurry.

The next time the path splits; I shove off my socks and leave them behind. I'm down to my boxer-briefs now, and Blaine's getting closer. He's moving quickly.

My legs are shaking by the time I round the next bend in the path, but I'm not sure whether it's because I've been running or because my body has started to respond to this game of erotic tag. Goosebumps ripple across my skin. The cool air rushing past my bare nipples teases them into hard, sensitive points.

At the next fork, I slip my underwear down my legs and throw them down on the path.

I'm nearing the center of the labyrinth now. I can hear the wind blowing across the tops of the hedges, and somewhere in the distance a horn honks, but otherwise we're completely cut off from the rest of Manhattan. Anything can happen between these leafy walls and if we stay out here too long, we could quite possibly give one of his neighbors a rather spectacular show... not that we hadn't already had that potential a time or two before.

Blaine's gaining now. More than once I've caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder, but I've managed to stay ahead of him so far. At one point I round a corner and lose him for a little while, but soon enough I hear his footsteps behind me again. He's close, and he doesn't seem to be tiring. I don't know how much longer I can hold him off.

The next time the path curves, it doesn't lead me down another labyrinthine corridor. Instead, it opens onto a small circular clearing with a fountain at its center. This must be the very heart of the maze. I stop at the edge of the fountain. Behind me, Blaine's footsteps are approaching fast. They stagger to a stop when they reach the clearing. I take a deep breath and stare down into the clear water of the pool. My softly rippling reflection stares back at me, flushed and fully naked.

Blaine moves again, slowly this time, as if he's afraid to startle me. Each footstep behind me sends a shiver of anticipation through my body. I continue to stare down into the water, even as my nerves prickle at his approach.

When he's right behind me, he stops again. For the longest moment, he doesn't touch me, but his breath stirs the hair on my neck. I can feel the heat of his body up and down my naked back. When finally he reaches out and brushes his hands down the length of my arms, my heart is sprinting so fast I can hardly breathe. My skin trembles under his touch.

"Kurt," he murmurs, his lips at my ear.

His fingers slide down my arms to my hands, then move to my hips. I arch back against him, and that's when I realize that he's naked, too.

I twist in his arms so that I'm facing him. He's beautiful. His eyes gleam with something deeper than lust, and I want to lose myself in them. Sometime later we'll have to start thinking about the sort of relationship we might have outside this place, removed from the magic of this house, beyond the games and the sex that brought us together. There's so much I want to share with him—meaningful things, important things. I want to take him to the Center, show him the changes my dad and I have made. I want to talk to him about Adam and all the other events, good or bad, that have shaped me into the person I am today. And I want him to share other parts of his life with me, too.

For now, though, I'm content to just be here in his arms. "I win," he says, leaning down and brushing his lips across mine.

"No," I murmur against his mouth. "I think I did."


End file.
